There's a fantastic book out there that I've been meaning to get, Art & Fear. It has great anecdotes and advice about making art, or Art. I have a few nonfiction books to work through, so I'm not overly concerned about getting it just yet, but the book certainly comes to mind now and again. Mainly when I'm writing stories.
It came right to the fore when I was slogging through the 30 Days Project. Hell, or hell-like. Certainly reminiscent of brimstone and repurposed Pan imagery, anyways. Because, as you'll notice, through my thirty posts (15,000+ words(!!!)), and to be fair, through almost every other participants thirty posts, there are nearly no comments. Which, I assumed, was one of the draws of the 30 Day Project. Get feedback, support, community of artists, etc.
Poor naive me of thirty plus days ago.
The whole process helped me with come up with a revelation I call "Art & Crap". Which is tangentially related to the bits of Art & Fear I've read that really rung true to me.
Art & Crap goes like this:
1) No one cares about your crap.*
2) Those who care about your crap will only care enough to tell you how crap you crap is.
3) People will genuinely care about your crap when it's too late.
4) Only you can give a crap about your crap.
Which is kinda related to this. A most excellent comment about the whole creative endeavour by one of my mostest favouritest web comics, Subnormality (the comic is easier to read when you think of it more as a blog with pictures, as opposed to a webcomic).
This rule of mine, that I made up and I'm sure is just a poor rendition of a better observation by a more learned mind is immensely helpful to me now. Waiting or hoping for feedback from people in order to keep you doing your work is the quickest way to drink or an alarming bill at the nearest transgendered clown and pony brothel.
And yet, don't you know, it's something I tend to fall in sometimes. But thankfully I have a little series of pat rules to get me out of it. They may not be entirely true, but true enough for my purposes, anyways.
*friends and family don't count, they pretty much have to either feign interest or develop a rare and temporary vision impairment.
Showing posts with label writing fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
30 Days Project
This June I'll be participating in the 30 Days Project. Create something new every day, for 30 days. I suspect it was first set up with visual and audio artists in mind: sculpture, painting, music, etc. Art forms that have a relatively high barrier to entry.
Not writing.¹
It was added later, a sort of nod to us lesser creative types. Which, I suppose I should qualify. There's just so many of us, that, on average, our quality has to be lesser, only stands to reason. You can't throw in 6,291 blogs about Iron Man & Hulk slash fic with the odd brilliant pieces and hope to come out with a positive whole number on an arbitrary scale of quality.
So, feeling like a bit of an imposter and in intruder, I'll attempt to write at least 500 words of fiction a day. About what theme, I'm not sure. Maybe just a smattering of different things.
This is a fair warning (and perhaps another bit of pressure upon myself to not abandon it), that the next 30 days in June will be FICTION FICTION FICTION!! A writing genre I was doing with utmost earnestness, but, sadly, with not a small variation of quality. More misses than hits, in retrospect, which likely lead to my sputtering stop.
So, if you don't like my fiction bits, maybe wait until July to tune in.
You've been warned.
¹(Anyone who has a keyboard and is filled with the delusion that people will read their writing voluntarily can, and invariably, will write. First it was Geocities, then mySpace, then that all got pulled into thing called 'blogs' because 'personal website' was a bit too much to remember, then twitter. If there's a platform, and a theoretical readership, there will be people who'll call themselves scribes or wordsmith or some other tiresome phrase and hack away. I am, sadly, one of those people. )
Not writing.¹
It was added later, a sort of nod to us lesser creative types. Which, I suppose I should qualify. There's just so many of us, that, on average, our quality has to be lesser, only stands to reason. You can't throw in 6,291 blogs about Iron Man & Hulk slash fic with the odd brilliant pieces and hope to come out with a positive whole number on an arbitrary scale of quality.
So, feeling like a bit of an imposter and in intruder, I'll attempt to write at least 500 words of fiction a day. About what theme, I'm not sure. Maybe just a smattering of different things.
This is a fair warning (and perhaps another bit of pressure upon myself to not abandon it), that the next 30 days in June will be FICTION FICTION FICTION!! A writing genre I was doing with utmost earnestness, but, sadly, with not a small variation of quality. More misses than hits, in retrospect, which likely lead to my sputtering stop.
So, if you don't like my fiction bits, maybe wait until July to tune in.
You've been warned.
¹(Anyone who has a keyboard and is filled with the delusion that people will read their writing voluntarily can, and invariably, will write. First it was Geocities, then mySpace, then that all got pulled into thing called 'blogs' because 'personal website' was a bit too much to remember, then twitter. If there's a platform, and a theoretical readership, there will be people who'll call themselves scribes or wordsmith or some other tiresome phrase and hack away. I am, sadly, one of those people. )
Thursday, March 19, 2009
SERIOUS Steampunk
I had to do my presentation for the Young Adult Fiction class I'm in. It was on steampunk. That rad trend that is already on it's last legs. I wrote up a bit just to get everyone's gears going before going into boring examples and why it's an excellent genre for YA.
Warning.
IT'S SERIOUS! AND FAUX LITERARY AND SHIT.
You've been warned.
Steampunk is evocative. Of cogs brass and valves. Wood and leather. Of massive unwieldy but beautiful machines made not by the hyper-efficient engine of a assembly-line society, but by artisans. People who worked close to the metal, as it were, where every part of a machine could eventually be broken down and explained to a schoolchild. The Machine made quaint, the Machine made monstrous, the Machine as an aesthetic imperative, whether that be a stunning contraption of whirring gears and highly polished oak, or a belching, heaving mass of pistons and heavy fly wheels churning to some indefinite but sinister purpose.
A world covered with coal soot and brimming with the sights, sounds, and smells of a city still grappling with the transition to the industrial age. A city bursting with life: dirty and squalid, mean and charred, but also one of wonder. Where all about are things and ideas that still have the romance of new, the novel, of the undiscovered country.
There's something deep in the human brain that clicks when it sees something steampunk. The objects are heavy. They are not of the temporary now, so fleeting a world where even the all powerful entity of money is nothing more than electrons careening through fibres and living on kraken-like computers held by a priest-like banking system. No. These objects are substantial. Of something created from man, carefully, with purpose. Something meant to withstand the vagaries of a flitting world.
Warning.
IT'S SERIOUS! AND FAUX LITERARY AND SHIT.
You've been warned.
Steampunk is evocative. Of cogs brass and valves. Wood and leather. Of massive unwieldy but beautiful machines made not by the hyper-efficient engine of a assembly-line society, but by artisans. People who worked close to the metal, as it were, where every part of a machine could eventually be broken down and explained to a schoolchild. The Machine made quaint, the Machine made monstrous, the Machine as an aesthetic imperative, whether that be a stunning contraption of whirring gears and highly polished oak, or a belching, heaving mass of pistons and heavy fly wheels churning to some indefinite but sinister purpose.
A world covered with coal soot and brimming with the sights, sounds, and smells of a city still grappling with the transition to the industrial age. A city bursting with life: dirty and squalid, mean and charred, but also one of wonder. Where all about are things and ideas that still have the romance of new, the novel, of the undiscovered country.
There's something deep in the human brain that clicks when it sees something steampunk. The objects are heavy. They are not of the temporary now, so fleeting a world where even the all powerful entity of money is nothing more than electrons careening through fibres and living on kraken-like computers held by a priest-like banking system. No. These objects are substantial. Of something created from man, carefully, with purpose. Something meant to withstand the vagaries of a flitting world.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
On The Edge of a Yawning Maw
You may or may not know I've enrolled in a Young Adult Fiction Writing course. It's for credit, so it's, I guess, real. I'm surrounded mainly by Creative Writing Majors, there's lots of talk about allusions and 'making art' and whatnot. It's great to have a group of people who you can talk with about the 'sagging middle' or the 'tyranny of the blank page' and not have them slowly edge away with terror in their eyes.
So, for this course I have to write about, oh I dunno, 10,000 words? Which, in my beginning days, would be a snap. Word count has been more of an issue as late. Could be debillitating overthinking, or a creeping suspicion that my fiction writing is shite when compared to my blog writing, and my blog writing isn't exactly Meville.
This presents a problem. A problem that I intend to clamber over like a well-intentioned trench soldier leaping out of his foxhole to experience just how bad machine gun bullets hurt.
Now, the good news is that I forced myself to cobble together, rather.. uh.. well, it's a hatchet job, but I finished my Epic Space Opera Farce About Society And Drugs... With Lasers. That was like a kryponite anchor around my neck. Not that I'm Superman or anything, but I hear kryponite is pretty damn heavy. Also, glowy. I've been glowingly weighed down for quite some time on this first draft, coming on two years, or.. three.
Damn.
You just get so far in, and you start all these plot threads and character arcs and in the end aren't really THAT clear on what the hell you wanted to say. So, you're 75,000 words in and are doubtful that your climax, like the proverbial Snickers, really satisfies.
I can write a scene fine. It's clunky and awkward and it's not going to hold the door open for you, but it gets the job done and has some mildly amusing bits in it. I have no problem with a scene. It's the culmination off all these scenes. It's an additive thing. One is never sure that it's going to tie up neatly or to anyone's satisfaction.
In the midst of the tyranny and horror of the blank page, of the new novel, is that sense of vague accomplishment that comes with finishing a first draft. First, hey, great, finished that fu-- damn thing. Second, damnit, it's really utter crap. Contrasting emotions there.
And now I'm onto a new novel. Obviously, since it's for class, this fourth (yes, this is number four, number four in unpublished novels giving me evil looks from the hard-drive, right between a horribly mangled Family Budget 2005 spreadsheet and a picture of what appears to be a rather cute hamster. Or a sentient dust-bunny.) has to be Young Adult.
And now the yawning maw. The new novel. In a genre that I'm not well versed in, Young Adult (13-20). When I was a YA myself, I was reading King, King, a smattering of Tolkien, some Brooks, a dash of Asimov, and more King. It's a bit of the Han Solo problem for me. That is, kids watched Star Wars back in the day because of Han Fricking Solo, not the Ewoks. Yet in YA there has to be YA characters. Which I can understand. I think.
I guess I'm coming off as a negative Nancy here. This course is good for me. There are a few reasons that I decided to take it.
YA sounds like the sort of genre that has the sort of stuff I'm into. Lasers, robots, ninjas, robot laser ninjas.
I mean, yes, there is the other side, the sensitive coming of age story about the a teenage girl as she struggles with her mother's addiction to Percocet, a devastatingly handsome yet alarmingly sensitive boy, and maybe the neighbourhood vampire coven. My impression is that YA is just like fiction in general, that is, the vast majority is written for women.
But I'm interested in the other bit. The bit with outrageous monsters and dry dry humour. Things that are, for lack of a hipper term, 'cool'. At least to me. A vanishingly small demographic, to be sure.
And it's great, the camaraderie, the quick glances at the old, decidedly unhip dude in the back with the Battlestar Galactica shirt, the veiled references that maybe only real writers should be in the class... Where was I going with this. I'm hoping that, like iodine splashed with marked violence into a gaping knee wound, this will be good for me in an excruciatingly exposing way. And now I'm faced with the judgment from my peers, and the yawning maw, the blank page, the novel that must be written.
Fun, this writer stuff.
So, for this course I have to write about, oh I dunno, 10,000 words? Which, in my beginning days, would be a snap. Word count has been more of an issue as late. Could be debillitating overthinking, or a creeping suspicion that my fiction writing is shite when compared to my blog writing, and my blog writing isn't exactly Meville.
This presents a problem. A problem that I intend to clamber over like a well-intentioned trench soldier leaping out of his foxhole to experience just how bad machine gun bullets hurt.
Now, the good news is that I forced myself to cobble together, rather.. uh.. well, it's a hatchet job, but I finished my Epic Space Opera Farce About Society And Drugs... With Lasers. That was like a kryponite anchor around my neck. Not that I'm Superman or anything, but I hear kryponite is pretty damn heavy. Also, glowy. I've been glowingly weighed down for quite some time on this first draft, coming on two years, or.. three.
Damn.
You just get so far in, and you start all these plot threads and character arcs and in the end aren't really THAT clear on what the hell you wanted to say. So, you're 75,000 words in and are doubtful that your climax, like the proverbial Snickers, really satisfies.
I can write a scene fine. It's clunky and awkward and it's not going to hold the door open for you, but it gets the job done and has some mildly amusing bits in it. I have no problem with a scene. It's the culmination off all these scenes. It's an additive thing. One is never sure that it's going to tie up neatly or to anyone's satisfaction.
In the midst of the tyranny and horror of the blank page, of the new novel, is that sense of vague accomplishment that comes with finishing a first draft. First, hey, great, finished that fu-- damn thing. Second, damnit, it's really utter crap. Contrasting emotions there.
And now I'm onto a new novel. Obviously, since it's for class, this fourth (yes, this is number four, number four in unpublished novels giving me evil looks from the hard-drive, right between a horribly mangled Family Budget 2005 spreadsheet and a picture of what appears to be a rather cute hamster. Or a sentient dust-bunny.) has to be Young Adult.
And now the yawning maw. The new novel. In a genre that I'm not well versed in, Young Adult (13-20). When I was a YA myself, I was reading King, King, a smattering of Tolkien, some Brooks, a dash of Asimov, and more King. It's a bit of the Han Solo problem for me. That is, kids watched Star Wars back in the day because of Han Fricking Solo, not the Ewoks. Yet in YA there has to be YA characters. Which I can understand. I think.
I guess I'm coming off as a negative Nancy here. This course is good for me. There are a few reasons that I decided to take it.
YA sounds like the sort of genre that has the sort of stuff I'm into. Lasers, robots, ninjas, robot laser ninjas.
I mean, yes, there is the other side, the sensitive coming of age story about the a teenage girl as she struggles with her mother's addiction to Percocet, a devastatingly handsome yet alarmingly sensitive boy, and maybe the neighbourhood vampire coven. My impression is that YA is just like fiction in general, that is, the vast majority is written for women.
But I'm interested in the other bit. The bit with outrageous monsters and dry dry humour. Things that are, for lack of a hipper term, 'cool'. At least to me. A vanishingly small demographic, to be sure.
And it's great, the camaraderie, the quick glances at the old, decidedly unhip dude in the back with the Battlestar Galactica shirt, the veiled references that maybe only real writers should be in the class... Where was I going with this. I'm hoping that, like iodine splashed with marked violence into a gaping knee wound, this will be good for me in an excruciatingly exposing way. And now I'm faced with the judgment from my peers, and the yawning maw, the blank page, the novel that must be written.
Fun, this writer stuff.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Writing is Like Being That Ginormous Life Making Machine Doohickey in the 5th Element
Lately my fiction writing has come to a grinding standstill. Sprawling satirical space operas that attempt to say something about the drug industry (both legal and none) is apparently kind of tricky.
I've taken refuge in reading books (Story by Robert McKee and Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maass) about fiction and story. These deal with down to the bones ideas on craft and artistry and how best to go about constructing your work. There is a lot to learn, and so much I don't know. But the beginning writer, such as my self, is always in conflict with two urges: one, to write it, get it down, work as fast as you can and maybe the dreaded Writer's Block won't catch you; and two, dear lord PAY attention to fundamental principles of story design and structure!
It's not unlike being that Ginormous Life Making Machine Doohickey in the 5th Element. You know the machine that rebuilds Milla WhatsherfacesomethingthatsoundsRussian? There it is, furiously working, trying to make a living organism from a single cell that happened to survived inside a glove, creating the bones and nervous systems, muscles and what not. And then they flash the end product with UV light, skin is made, and Boom! Milla is once again an action hero who is outweighed by her weapons by a ratio of 4 to 1.
Writing is exactly like that, for me, at least. Except for the end product, replace a European model with a three legged, profanity spewing orange hippopotamus with a partially working digestive track attached to its tail. I look at it and think, "Something just iiisn't right here." Just a nagging suspicion, I'm sure.
There are fundamental, down to the bones error in some of my pieces (I've thus far finished 2 novels (one through it's 3rd draft, one 1st draft), and like, 80% of this space opera (nothing published)). But I feel like I'm too close to the works, and not entirely sure what I'm looking for. Part of me thinks, "Well hell, it's living and breathing, technically, it's an organism.", and the other, rational, less forgiving part of me things "Oh dear god what have you done!?" I avert my eyes. I can feel that an abomination against the universal laws of Story have been committed. Something, or many somethings, just isn't quite working.
It's troubling. To say the least.
I've taken refuge in reading books (Story by Robert McKee and Writing the Breakout Novel by Donald Maass) about fiction and story. These deal with down to the bones ideas on craft and artistry and how best to go about constructing your work. There is a lot to learn, and so much I don't know. But the beginning writer, such as my self, is always in conflict with two urges: one, to write it, get it down, work as fast as you can and maybe the dreaded Writer's Block won't catch you; and two, dear lord PAY attention to fundamental principles of story design and structure!
It's not unlike being that Ginormous Life Making Machine Doohickey in the 5th Element. You know the machine that rebuilds Milla WhatsherfacesomethingthatsoundsRussian? There it is, furiously working, trying to make a living organism from a single cell that happened to survived inside a glove, creating the bones and nervous systems, muscles and what not. And then they flash the end product with UV light, skin is made, and Boom! Milla is once again an action hero who is outweighed by her weapons by a ratio of 4 to 1.
Writing is exactly like that, for me, at least. Except for the end product, replace a European model with a three legged, profanity spewing orange hippopotamus with a partially working digestive track attached to its tail. I look at it and think, "Something just iiisn't right here." Just a nagging suspicion, I'm sure.
There are fundamental, down to the bones error in some of my pieces (I've thus far finished 2 novels (one through it's 3rd draft, one 1st draft), and like, 80% of this space opera (nothing published)). But I feel like I'm too close to the works, and not entirely sure what I'm looking for. Part of me thinks, "Well hell, it's living and breathing, technically, it's an organism.", and the other, rational, less forgiving part of me things "Oh dear god what have you done!?" I avert my eyes. I can feel that an abomination against the universal laws of Story have been committed. Something, or many somethings, just isn't quite working.
It's troubling. To say the least.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
A Smack Upside the Head from Reality
I'm sending out one of my short stories to try and get it published. It's a rabid field. Filled with thousands, millions of frantic typists like myself who think, because they have memorized Home Row, they are worthy to be paid for stuff they just make up between reruns of Star Trek.
Sometimes I am under the deluded impression that I am special among the countless rank and file, that perhaps I can string together words just slightly better than the next bloke who can never spell 'weird' correctly and always smells of cheap cheese.
This delusion, of course, comes from friends, family, and yes, even strangers. I'll pass a piece I'm working on to a family/friend, they'll read, it, and think (or only say out loud) that it is indeed, the best thing since sliced bread. Maybe even the best thing since sliced pizza (which is when I know they are lying, some fibs are just too big).
I'll even submit it to any sundry number of online critique forums, where, admittedly, they don't exactly gush over it. But they don't quash it like the rubbish it quite rightly is. But when you are counting on that very same person you are critiquing to critique your 5000 word short story about a semi-sentient bat who has an affair with the farmer's daughter before ridding the world of the Robotical Demonoid Dragon King Ur'zahkoonaga, you tend to go a bit easy.
This is all a very round about way of saying that one can never, ever be sure if the fiction one writes is any good. Never. Or at least, I've not gotten to the point where I can tell. Which is a cruel trick of the gods, in my opinion. It's like being a painter, making your creation in the dark, and then sending it out sight unseen hoping that it's in fact, a painting of a gazelle on the serengetti and not a feeble attempt at erotic plush velvet art featuring My Little Pony and the only boy in the Strawberry Shortcake universe.
What makes this even more aggravating is that one isn't sure if the stuff you are sweating and grinding out is actually terrible, or just terrible for that one editor who has sent you a form letter with a neatly printed personal note at the bottom to 'Please, please stop sending me fiction, my eyes can only bleed so much until I'll need yet another transfusion'.
Is the piece crap? Or is that editor's taste just not yours? Is it any good? Or do you need to go through the requisite mountains of rejections? At what point does one just blindly believe in (what always sounds magnificently pompous) "the work"?
It's a balance between pig-headed faith in yourself and a sensitivity to the objective quality of your writing. One has to constantly shovel (yes, I do realize the image that brings up, its not entirely inappropriate) your work out there, blindly, hoping that at some point, some near sighted editor lets it slip by and you no longer have to wonder. As much.
Sometimes I am under the deluded impression that I am special among the countless rank and file, that perhaps I can string together words just slightly better than the next bloke who can never spell 'weird' correctly and always smells of cheap cheese.
This delusion, of course, comes from friends, family, and yes, even strangers. I'll pass a piece I'm working on to a family/friend, they'll read, it, and think (or only say out loud) that it is indeed, the best thing since sliced bread. Maybe even the best thing since sliced pizza (which is when I know they are lying, some fibs are just too big).
I'll even submit it to any sundry number of online critique forums, where, admittedly, they don't exactly gush over it. But they don't quash it like the rubbish it quite rightly is. But when you are counting on that very same person you are critiquing to critique your 5000 word short story about a semi-sentient bat who has an affair with the farmer's daughter before ridding the world of the Robotical Demonoid Dragon King Ur'zahkoonaga, you tend to go a bit easy.
This is all a very round about way of saying that one can never, ever be sure if the fiction one writes is any good. Never. Or at least, I've not gotten to the point where I can tell. Which is a cruel trick of the gods, in my opinion. It's like being a painter, making your creation in the dark, and then sending it out sight unseen hoping that it's in fact, a painting of a gazelle on the serengetti and not a feeble attempt at erotic plush velvet art featuring My Little Pony and the only boy in the Strawberry Shortcake universe.
What makes this even more aggravating is that one isn't sure if the stuff you are sweating and grinding out is actually terrible, or just terrible for that one editor who has sent you a form letter with a neatly printed personal note at the bottom to 'Please, please stop sending me fiction, my eyes can only bleed so much until I'll need yet another transfusion'.
Is the piece crap? Or is that editor's taste just not yours? Is it any good? Or do you need to go through the requisite mountains of rejections? At what point does one just blindly believe in (what always sounds magnificently pompous) "the work"?
It's a balance between pig-headed faith in yourself and a sensitivity to the objective quality of your writing. One has to constantly shovel (yes, I do realize the image that brings up, its not entirely inappropriate) your work out there, blindly, hoping that at some point, some near sighted editor lets it slip by and you no longer have to wonder. As much.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Stress
Somedays are easy and breezy, like so many pina coladas on a slightly illegal Caribbean hot spot, like that one time you have surgery on an infinitely unpronounceable body part and they give you some highly addictive but oh so dreamy narcotic. We all strive for the ease of days. (Those of us who don't thrive on it of course. There are a cursed few who live for it, ER doctors, say, or air traffic controllers, maybe the odd bomb specialist, and of course, the ubiquitous Extreme Sports Guy on an edgy, Gen-Xerish commercial touting yet another way to get caffeine into your system).
And yet, and yet there are times when the Fates -- being the vindictive harpies they are -- conspire to shovel unto your unsuspecting, in full repose self, a mountain of stress. A heaping mountain of Everestian stress. And I'm not just talking about the base of Everest, I'm talking about the whole sack of hammers; even the top where countless numbers of once brave, stiff upper lipped British explorers have left their very courageous corpses.
It is the stuff that builds character. It's the day that's crafted to off you, once and for all. To take advantage of your faulty ticker or hair trigger response to aneurysms.
It's not without purpose, of course. We as a hunter gatherer people are used to stress, it was our pulse, it let us know we were still hunting the mammoth on those primitive plains of yore, or perhaps trudging through bleak and unforgiving tundra, looking for that one bit of shelter to save us from the elements. And, to a much lesser extent, it was the pregnant pause as we watched our fellow cavemen admire and judge our neolithic paintings of ungulates (more than likely made with feces or blood of a downed furry thing). And it was stress we felt when we watched our tribesmen surround a great beast; and use teamwork and a suicidal disregard for the physics of multi-ton pachyderms versus small naked ape descendants.
Stress is the stuff of waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to fall, for the thing-that-we'd-rather-not-fail-horribly to be put through it's paces. Waiting for our lives to forever be changed by the outcome.
For me, that was today. It was the day when we waited for the subjects to be removed from our place (the buyer crossing all the t's, dotting all the i's, struggling with the throes of Buyers Remorse); and also the day we put in an offer to our new digs; and also the day when I decided to email the agent who has a partial manuscript of my book, and who I've been waiting for for a good five months and a bit; and also the day when the Canucks had game seven for the Western Conference quarter finals (admittedly, I have never been nor will I ever be a hockey fan, let alone a Canucks fan, but it's difficult to ignore the outcome of a small rubber disc on ice being thrashed at by grown men in gladiatoresque uniforms when the entire city, as well as a few of my close friends, are positively Heart In Throat about the whole thing (I will never jump onto the Canucks Fanwagon. There are some things that are too sacred to sully with Me-Too-ism. Die-hard fan loyalty for a franchise that has tripped and fallen oh so many times is one of them.)).
In short, it was my version of the hunt for the shelter from the elements, the judgment of my cave painting, and the hush before the hunters were victorious or permanently driven into the landscape by a lethal pachyderm.
It was a day of stress.
But, lo and behold, things went along well. Subjects were removed, our offer was accepted (albeit with a slight alteration, we have a month in which we are homeless), the Canucks won, but of course, the one thing that has my heart going the way of Myocardial Infarction Ville will probably not be settled until much later.
And probably with an equally stressing and all the less exciting rejection form letter.
Ah to be a caveman.
And yet, and yet there are times when the Fates -- being the vindictive harpies they are -- conspire to shovel unto your unsuspecting, in full repose self, a mountain of stress. A heaping mountain of Everestian stress. And I'm not just talking about the base of Everest, I'm talking about the whole sack of hammers; even the top where countless numbers of once brave, stiff upper lipped British explorers have left their very courageous corpses.
It is the stuff that builds character. It's the day that's crafted to off you, once and for all. To take advantage of your faulty ticker or hair trigger response to aneurysms.
It's not without purpose, of course. We as a hunter gatherer people are used to stress, it was our pulse, it let us know we were still hunting the mammoth on those primitive plains of yore, or perhaps trudging through bleak and unforgiving tundra, looking for that one bit of shelter to save us from the elements. And, to a much lesser extent, it was the pregnant pause as we watched our fellow cavemen admire and judge our neolithic paintings of ungulates (more than likely made with feces or blood of a downed furry thing). And it was stress we felt when we watched our tribesmen surround a great beast; and use teamwork and a suicidal disregard for the physics of multi-ton pachyderms versus small naked ape descendants.
Stress is the stuff of waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to fall, for the thing-that-we'd-rather-not-fail-horribly to be put through it's paces. Waiting for our lives to forever be changed by the outcome.
For me, that was today. It was the day when we waited for the subjects to be removed from our place (the buyer crossing all the t's, dotting all the i's, struggling with the throes of Buyers Remorse); and also the day we put in an offer to our new digs; and also the day when I decided to email the agent who has a partial manuscript of my book, and who I've been waiting for for a good five months and a bit; and also the day when the Canucks had game seven for the Western Conference quarter finals (admittedly, I have never been nor will I ever be a hockey fan, let alone a Canucks fan, but it's difficult to ignore the outcome of a small rubber disc on ice being thrashed at by grown men in gladiatoresque uniforms when the entire city, as well as a few of my close friends, are positively Heart In Throat about the whole thing (I will never jump onto the Canucks Fanwagon. There are some things that are too sacred to sully with Me-Too-ism. Die-hard fan loyalty for a franchise that has tripped and fallen oh so many times is one of them.)).
In short, it was my version of the hunt for the shelter from the elements, the judgment of my cave painting, and the hush before the hunters were victorious or permanently driven into the landscape by a lethal pachyderm.
It was a day of stress.
But, lo and behold, things went along well. Subjects were removed, our offer was accepted (albeit with a slight alteration, we have a month in which we are homeless), the Canucks won, but of course, the one thing that has my heart going the way of Myocardial Infarction Ville will probably not be settled until much later.
And probably with an equally stressing and all the less exciting rejection form letter.
Ah to be a caveman.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Like a Many Layered Cake of Frustration Part 2
Alrighty, this post is to continue my wildly popular (at least to Nighthawk, heya!) post about the types of writers there.
4) Agented
This is a tricky business. An agent gets thousands of queries to represent their work. And of those thousands, they maybe accept about .01%. That's right. Not 1%, .01%. Crazy eh? Literary Agents have become the new keepers of the Gate. The Gate in this case being the Gate to Getting you Book Published.
Being repped by an agent means that your manuscript is making it past some of the mandatory sieves and barriers that un-agented stuff must go through. You maybe picked up, you may not. Much of getting published has to do with market timing, who likes what, and a bunch of other stuff that I'm sure is influenced by a butterfly beating her wings in Japan somewhere.
5) First Time Published
Ah, the author has gone through the gauntlet. Usually after around 2ish years (this is after finishing the book, after getting an agent, after it getting bought by a publisher), their book is on the shelves.
They worry about things I can only dream of. Reviews, publicity, who will like it? How is it being marketed? What about my next book?
Their worries are no less real than we, the legion of unpublished novelists. There are reams of things they need to learn about publishing,and the whole business of writing. And if their agent is good, they won't have to worry about this side too much.
6) Mid List Author
This is a quickly diminishing group. But it's a group I'd be more than ecstatic to find myself in. This group makes about a middle class income, and publishes anywhere from 1 to 2 books a year. They make middling sales. They can pay their mortgage. They might do things they aren't entirely proud of, like write books based off movies, and whatnot. But they'll have their own cadre of loyal fans.
They are professional writers.
Somewhat related to the midlist is the literary novelist. Many of them can go publishing and publishing, and never hit a home run. From what I understand, they cannot write full time. Advances are too small. Now, this is only on my reading of it. A commercial mid-list writer and a literary novelist are cut from the same cloth, but live in different worlds (if I may butcher the metaphor).
7) Blockbusting Bestselling Authors
The number of these, in relation to how many writers there are is so infinitesimally small it's not worth figuring out the number of decimals places I have to count just to write it out. It's puny. Tiny. If you sneeze, that number would become zero.
The bad news is that any one who hears you are writing, automatically assumes this is where you are going to be.
I'm sure I'm missing many nuances and levels here. But this is as best as I can understand it. And more or less talking about commercial, genre writers. It's a crowded, messy world out there. A high layered cake where every segment seems more overcrowded than the last. Every segment seems more impossible to overcome.
But take heart, there are hundreds of thousands, just like you, going through the same thing.
4) Agented
This is a tricky business. An agent gets thousands of queries to represent their work. And of those thousands, they maybe accept about .01%. That's right. Not 1%, .01%. Crazy eh? Literary Agents have become the new keepers of the Gate. The Gate in this case being the Gate to Getting you Book Published.
Being repped by an agent means that your manuscript is making it past some of the mandatory sieves and barriers that un-agented stuff must go through. You maybe picked up, you may not. Much of getting published has to do with market timing, who likes what, and a bunch of other stuff that I'm sure is influenced by a butterfly beating her wings in Japan somewhere.
5) First Time Published
Ah, the author has gone through the gauntlet. Usually after around 2ish years (this is after finishing the book, after getting an agent, after it getting bought by a publisher), their book is on the shelves.
They worry about things I can only dream of. Reviews, publicity, who will like it? How is it being marketed? What about my next book?
Their worries are no less real than we, the legion of unpublished novelists. There are reams of things they need to learn about publishing,and the whole business of writing. And if their agent is good, they won't have to worry about this side too much.
6) Mid List Author
This is a quickly diminishing group. But it's a group I'd be more than ecstatic to find myself in. This group makes about a middle class income, and publishes anywhere from 1 to 2 books a year. They make middling sales. They can pay their mortgage. They might do things they aren't entirely proud of, like write books based off movies, and whatnot. But they'll have their own cadre of loyal fans.
They are professional writers.
Somewhat related to the midlist is the literary novelist. Many of them can go publishing and publishing, and never hit a home run. From what I understand, they cannot write full time. Advances are too small. Now, this is only on my reading of it. A commercial mid-list writer and a literary novelist are cut from the same cloth, but live in different worlds (if I may butcher the metaphor).
7) Blockbusting Bestselling Authors
The number of these, in relation to how many writers there are is so infinitesimally small it's not worth figuring out the number of decimals places I have to count just to write it out. It's puny. Tiny. If you sneeze, that number would become zero.
The bad news is that any one who hears you are writing, automatically assumes this is where you are going to be.
I'm sure I'm missing many nuances and levels here. But this is as best as I can understand it. And more or less talking about commercial, genre writers. It's a crowded, messy world out there. A high layered cake where every segment seems more overcrowded than the last. Every segment seems more impossible to overcome.
But take heart, there are hundreds of thousands, just like you, going through the same thing.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Requests!
So my good buddy Funka! (not his real name, at least I'm pretty sure, no, I'm sure. But his real name isn't nearly as fun to say. Who wouldn't want to have a punctuation mark in their name!) has requested some more of my fiction.
Which is a tremendous compliment. And I thank him for what was probably an innocuous comment (made to fill up that awkward MSN pause where nobody is sure who's turn it is to type something, but neither wants to just exit MSN, and you are both just stuck there, watching that little window, hoping it doesn't flash, just trying to finish off your word document or excel spreadsheet, or that one last mine you have to find in Minesweeper, whatever).
Er, so, I put it to you readers (who have dropped from the heady number of 60 something returning visitors to a meager 38 (I can only assume Google is cracking down on spiders and bots)), what sort of fiction would y'all like to read?
Right now I'm working very sluggishly on my third unpublished novel. As you all know, Hayden Smith: Sardonic Space Cowboy. But really really really slow. For my last two, I tried my darndest to keep to 2000 words per day: as recommended by Stephen King (in his book On Writing, and in his article "Everything You Need To Know To Write Successfully In 10 Minutes". In this current work, I'm really dragging my feet. I'm lucky to get 4000 words a WEEK.
Glacial.
In my defense, I'm working through my very least favorite thing to do : plotting. Which just bogs me the hell down.
I have a few pieces I haven't posted yet. I think most of them are urban fantasy. Which is fantasy in 'real world' setting. Mostly offices. Er, only offices. Actually, just like "One Over, Three Down". Well sorta, without the horror aspect. That is, there is horror, but only in style of writing and the hackneyed language as opposed to any intentioned effect (affect?).
Oh, heck, I'll post a little challenge on of the writers in my critique group gave me. Write a short story without using the letters q or w.
End Cometh
The guppy cuts through the stream. Krest only looks at it, doesn't move to spear it, kill it, catch it for dinner. He looks up the cobbled tunnel. It's a long trek for him yet. But at the end, oh, at the end.
He shudders.
It's from the stream, it's so cold, so clear. The stories of it running red from blood skitter and scatter over his mind. But those stories are in the past. Ancient history.
The village elders never told him the origins of the tunnel. Only that it housed the Darkness. The Darkness comes every one hundred years. No exceptions. And this being year 100, somebody had to do something. Preferably someone that believes in the legends. Someone still in thrall of ancient stories.
His friends all laughed, they made fun relentlessly before he left. But the day came, he climbed aboard his raft, a simple leaf, and they did not laugh, they did not chatter, they did not jibe.
He hopes to hear their jibes again. They chatter about the oddness of a Darkness coming from The Patched Cave. The Tunnel. The Bringer of Darkness, as the elders called it.
Krest peered into the tunnel. Past the area that the boys dared one another. Go past there, go past there. Far past the touch of sunlight.
It looks almost inviting. There are thick pipes that run in the darkness. Not The Darkness, only the darkened recesses. No one can recall if those pipes are for the tribe, from the tribe, or from another, more ancient storied race. Nevertheless, the pipes, they zing and ping. They ting invitingly.
Krest approaches the cobbled sides. It's commonly thought that the safest, surest path is to climb the sides. Climb the sides into the cave, cavern, Tunnel, Bringer of Darkness. He's a sure climber, but the cobbled stones are massive, heavy things. Moved into place by a forgotten people for forgotten reasons.
The Tunnel echoes. Every slipped grip, every gasp of surprise, every grunt of strain is magnified to a giant. He hopes that The Darkness is scared of giants. He hopes he isn't too scared of the Darkness. But soon, the black mantle of Tunnel is about him. There are the dimmest of outlines of the cobbled stones. The rich heady smells of moss creeping on every surface.
It's a skeleton. A skeleton of a monster. Hell rending teeth, long terrible body bound to the earth. Krest jumps to the ground to look at it. It has a metal colllar around its neck. it reads, "Elvis the Croc".
Krest chuckles. A pet. A giant pet. Large enough to devour his entire village. But a pet nonetheless. A dead pet. Besides it rests a gigantic box not made of bark or cedar, paper or cotton. It's light, too light. "McDonald's" is emblazoned on it. Surely one of the ancients.
The elders are not pleased on Krest's report. It is not as prophecy had foretold. The Darkness is a cloud of death and teeth. It rains pain and misery upon the village. Every one hundred years. The end is nigh. The end is nigh. If legend had not informed the elders of anything, it had told them the end is nigh.
Krest leaves camp. Or Krest is exiled. His friends do not jibe him, chide is foolishness. They do laugh even louder to the proclamations of the elder. Loud forceful laughter.
Which is a tremendous compliment. And I thank him for what was probably an innocuous comment (made to fill up that awkward MSN pause where nobody is sure who's turn it is to type something, but neither wants to just exit MSN, and you are both just stuck there, watching that little window, hoping it doesn't flash, just trying to finish off your word document or excel spreadsheet, or that one last mine you have to find in Minesweeper, whatever).
Er, so, I put it to you readers (who have dropped from the heady number of 60 something returning visitors to a meager 38 (I can only assume Google is cracking down on spiders and bots)), what sort of fiction would y'all like to read?
Right now I'm working very sluggishly on my third unpublished novel. As you all know, Hayden Smith: Sardonic Space Cowboy. But really really really slow. For my last two, I tried my darndest to keep to 2000 words per day: as recommended by Stephen King (in his book On Writing, and in his article "Everything You Need To Know To Write Successfully In 10 Minutes". In this current work, I'm really dragging my feet. I'm lucky to get 4000 words a WEEK.
Glacial.
In my defense, I'm working through my very least favorite thing to do : plotting. Which just bogs me the hell down.
I have a few pieces I haven't posted yet. I think most of them are urban fantasy. Which is fantasy in 'real world' setting. Mostly offices. Er, only offices. Actually, just like "One Over, Three Down". Well sorta, without the horror aspect. That is, there is horror, but only in style of writing and the hackneyed language as opposed to any intentioned effect (affect?).
Oh, heck, I'll post a little challenge on of the writers in my critique group gave me. Write a short story without using the letters q or w.
End Cometh
The guppy cuts through the stream. Krest only looks at it, doesn't move to spear it, kill it, catch it for dinner. He looks up the cobbled tunnel. It's a long trek for him yet. But at the end, oh, at the end.
He shudders.
It's from the stream, it's so cold, so clear. The stories of it running red from blood skitter and scatter over his mind. But those stories are in the past. Ancient history.
The village elders never told him the origins of the tunnel. Only that it housed the Darkness. The Darkness comes every one hundred years. No exceptions. And this being year 100, somebody had to do something. Preferably someone that believes in the legends. Someone still in thrall of ancient stories.
His friends all laughed, they made fun relentlessly before he left. But the day came, he climbed aboard his raft, a simple leaf, and they did not laugh, they did not chatter, they did not jibe.
He hopes to hear their jibes again. They chatter about the oddness of a Darkness coming from The Patched Cave. The Tunnel. The Bringer of Darkness, as the elders called it.
Krest peered into the tunnel. Past the area that the boys dared one another. Go past there, go past there. Far past the touch of sunlight.
It looks almost inviting. There are thick pipes that run in the darkness. Not The Darkness, only the darkened recesses. No one can recall if those pipes are for the tribe, from the tribe, or from another, more ancient storied race. Nevertheless, the pipes, they zing and ping. They ting invitingly.
Krest approaches the cobbled sides. It's commonly thought that the safest, surest path is to climb the sides. Climb the sides into the cave, cavern, Tunnel, Bringer of Darkness. He's a sure climber, but the cobbled stones are massive, heavy things. Moved into place by a forgotten people for forgotten reasons.
The Tunnel echoes. Every slipped grip, every gasp of surprise, every grunt of strain is magnified to a giant. He hopes that The Darkness is scared of giants. He hopes he isn't too scared of the Darkness. But soon, the black mantle of Tunnel is about him. There are the dimmest of outlines of the cobbled stones. The rich heady smells of moss creeping on every surface.
It's a skeleton. A skeleton of a monster. Hell rending teeth, long terrible body bound to the earth. Krest jumps to the ground to look at it. It has a metal colllar around its neck. it reads, "Elvis the Croc".
Krest chuckles. A pet. A giant pet. Large enough to devour his entire village. But a pet nonetheless. A dead pet. Besides it rests a gigantic box not made of bark or cedar, paper or cotton. It's light, too light. "McDonald's" is emblazoned on it. Surely one of the ancients.
The elders are not pleased on Krest's report. It is not as prophecy had foretold. The Darkness is a cloud of death and teeth. It rains pain and misery upon the village. Every one hundred years. The end is nigh. The end is nigh. If legend had not informed the elders of anything, it had told them the end is nigh.
Krest leaves camp. Or Krest is exiled. His friends do not jibe him, chide is foolishness. They do laugh even louder to the proclamations of the elder. Loud forceful laughter.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Like a Many Layered Cake of Frustration
There are many stages of The Writer. As far as I can tell, each level you get to seems more populated than the one before. It's like some perverse inverted pyramid of frustrated and aspiring scribblers. Here are the ones I can identify:
1) Denier
This person reads like it's going out of style. Reads tons and tons and then maybe an ounce more. Has many opinions on books, writers, writing, etc. Mildly entertains the notion that he might, just might -- if push came to shove came to forcible coercion -- have a book in him. Refuses to entertain this possibility one iota further.
2) Acolyte
Firmly believe that they can write. That maybe even writing is in the stars, tea leaves, or the droppings of a particularly prescient goat. Read tons. But now reads tons ABOUT writing, and ON writing (Orson Scott Card's "Science Fiction and Fantasy Writing" and Stephen King's "On Writing" are pretty darned good). Maybe subscribes to a writerseditors/publishers/agents blog. Maybe subscribes to 20 of them.
Starts joining various writer's forums.
Words coming, not so much. Perhaps as quick molasses upstream during a snowstorm. Probably slower.
3) Blazingly Wild Amateur (my current level)
Thinks he's mastered a few tools. Has maybe completed a novel or two. Most definitely has finished a few short stories. Blissfully unaware of the rejection that awaits him. Keeps all his darlings unsubmitted. The looming wall of rejection is pretty scary. He's gone from "wanna write" to "time to see for whom the bell tolls". This process, as far as I've heard, is long and arduous. Lots of submitting, lots of rejection, but most importantly of all, writing and improving, writing and improving.
Other levels shall be detailed in further posts. And purely from an observer standpoint.
1) Denier
This person reads like it's going out of style. Reads tons and tons and then maybe an ounce more. Has many opinions on books, writers, writing, etc. Mildly entertains the notion that he might, just might -- if push came to shove came to forcible coercion -- have a book in him. Refuses to entertain this possibility one iota further.
2) Acolyte
Firmly believe that they can write. That maybe even writing is in the stars, tea leaves, or the droppings of a particularly prescient goat. Read tons. But now reads tons ABOUT writing, and ON writing (Orson Scott Card's "Science Fiction and Fantasy Writing" and Stephen King's "On Writing" are pretty darned good). Maybe subscribes to a writerseditors/publishers/agents blog. Maybe subscribes to 20 of them.
Starts joining various writer's forums.
Words coming, not so much. Perhaps as quick molasses upstream during a snowstorm. Probably slower.
3) Blazingly Wild Amateur (my current level)
Thinks he's mastered a few tools. Has maybe completed a novel or two. Most definitely has finished a few short stories. Blissfully unaware of the rejection that awaits him. Keeps all his darlings unsubmitted. The looming wall of rejection is pretty scary. He's gone from "wanna write" to "time to see for whom the bell tolls". This process, as far as I've heard, is long and arduous. Lots of submitting, lots of rejection, but most importantly of all, writing and improving, writing and improving.
Other levels shall be detailed in further posts. And purely from an observer standpoint.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Name in Print, Sort of.
You toil at the keyboard. Mashing the keyboard mercilessly; plotting, revealing character, spouting metaphors, crafting with all your writing ability to create readable fiction. Stuff that people would actually want to read. Not just stuff that coworkers and close friends feel compelled to cursorily glance through, nodding ever so slightly with a carefully crafted smile of 'enjoyment'Stuff that would entertain, and maybe even get a chuckle.
Maybe someday, someday it'll see print.
Then a cryptic email from the Ubyssey yesterday, something along the lines of 'we were able to fit everything in'.
My heart leapt.
Could it mean that my Space Cowboy piece would actually be published in a real live (student) paper?! That was pretty darned exciting. Sure, I've made my way into the department newsletters, which was pretty cool, but this is the first time my fiction had seen print.
On the other hand, they were printing absolutely everything. It wasn't like there was quality control on it. I was just as likely to see haikus on warp core field generators, I'm sure, than see some talent from a budding Asimov. But it's still something to see your stuff in print.
So lunchtime I run to the SUB, and pick up three or four copies of the Ubyssey's Friday edition. And lo and behold, they didn't only print the hallowed winners, but also the likes of lowly folks like me. If this was track & field in grade school, I'd be getting one of those ubiquitous 'Participant' ribbons. Maybe with a cursory phrase at the bottom informing me that I "Get An 'A' for Effort!".
I ruffle through the papers frantically. Passing by the new upgrades to the campus, the current state of the UBC Basketball team (men and women's), and all other sundry things. And wham, there it is. My name, finally in print. My piece, which I thought wasn't entirely atrocious, in print. "Hayden Smith : Sardonic Space Cowboy".
Except...
Except the title looks odd. "Sardonic Space Cowboy". Somewhere deep inside me dies slightly. I know what's going to be next. The next line smacks me like a buckshot of kryponite upside Superman's unsuspecting buttocks: "by, Hayden Smith"
Fantastic.
Here's first place, second place, third place, and mine. If you want to see what mine looks like in print, here's the two pdf files that have my story.
It was pretty interesting to read all the pieces. They were all fairly solid, IMHO. I really can't say how the first three won and the others didn't. My only quibble was that many of them didn't seem to have a plot perse. I'm one to talk, I write extremely simple plots. But at least there is one. Then again, maybe the style of 'not a whole lot of plot' is normal? Or maybe (probably) I'm just bitter.
I'll let y'all read and tell me what you think (as if I'll get an objective opinion here, I can see your nervous smiles and nods from here!).
Maybe someday, someday it'll see print.
Then a cryptic email from the Ubyssey yesterday, something along the lines of 'we were able to fit everything in'.
My heart leapt.
Could it mean that my Space Cowboy piece would actually be published in a real live (student) paper?! That was pretty darned exciting. Sure, I've made my way into the department newsletters, which was pretty cool, but this is the first time my fiction had seen print.
On the other hand, they were printing absolutely everything. It wasn't like there was quality control on it. I was just as likely to see haikus on warp core field generators, I'm sure, than see some talent from a budding Asimov. But it's still something to see your stuff in print.
So lunchtime I run to the SUB, and pick up three or four copies of the Ubyssey's Friday edition. And lo and behold, they didn't only print the hallowed winners, but also the likes of lowly folks like me. If this was track & field in grade school, I'd be getting one of those ubiquitous 'Participant' ribbons. Maybe with a cursory phrase at the bottom informing me that I "Get An 'A' for Effort!".
I ruffle through the papers frantically. Passing by the new upgrades to the campus, the current state of the UBC Basketball team (men and women's), and all other sundry things. And wham, there it is. My name, finally in print. My piece, which I thought wasn't entirely atrocious, in print. "Hayden Smith : Sardonic Space Cowboy".
Except...
Except the title looks odd. "Sardonic Space Cowboy". Somewhere deep inside me dies slightly. I know what's going to be next. The next line smacks me like a buckshot of kryponite upside Superman's unsuspecting buttocks: "by, Hayden Smith"
Fantastic.
Here's first place, second place, third place, and mine. If you want to see what mine looks like in print, here's the two pdf files that have my story.
It was pretty interesting to read all the pieces. They were all fairly solid, IMHO. I really can't say how the first three won and the others didn't. My only quibble was that many of them didn't seem to have a plot perse. I'm one to talk, I write extremely simple plots. But at least there is one. Then again, maybe the style of 'not a whole lot of plot' is normal? Or maybe (probably) I'm just bitter.
I'll let y'all read and tell me what you think (as if I'll get an objective opinion here, I can see your nervous smiles and nods from here!).
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Cleanup and More Rejection
So I just cleaned up a few of the blogs I was linking to since, apparently, they weren't linking to me. The buggers! I mean, that's ok. One of them is a highly traffic IP law blog run by a friend of mine. And the other is a Guild Wars thing. Either way, I can't imagine most people were clicking over there anyhoo.
And when I say friend, I mean friend I've met over the internets. Because that's what we geeks do. Find people to prattle endlessly to over the net. And then we listen to them prattle to us. Invariably, we are of the same opinion. And if we're not, then graphs, polemics, counterpoints and ripostes are issued. Links, references, footnotes and maybe a few quasi experts are put into play, should it come to that.
But I digress.
Other news!
The short fiction piece I submitted to the Ubyssey (student UBC newspaper) Sci Fi Contest didn't make the cut. Oh well. I imagine they got a metric ton of submissions. Maybe mine was so blazingly brilliant they didn't want to draw attention to my deathless prose that would shock the world a second renaissance of reading.
Or maybe mine just sucked.
Or maybe a humourous sci-fi short about a space cowboy named Hayden didn't fly well with the prof who was judging (who happened to specialized in Greek tragedy and the classics). Yeah. Anyhoo, that's my second submission to a contest. For those of you keeping score at home this would make it :
Newspaper Fiction Contests - 2; Me - 0
And when I say friend, I mean friend I've met over the internets. Because that's what we geeks do. Find people to prattle endlessly to over the net. And then we listen to them prattle to us. Invariably, we are of the same opinion. And if we're not, then graphs, polemics, counterpoints and ripostes are issued. Links, references, footnotes and maybe a few quasi experts are put into play, should it come to that.
But I digress.
Other news!
The short fiction piece I submitted to the Ubyssey (student UBC newspaper) Sci Fi Contest didn't make the cut. Oh well. I imagine they got a metric ton of submissions. Maybe mine was so blazingly brilliant they didn't want to draw attention to my deathless prose that would shock the world a second renaissance of reading.
Or maybe mine just sucked.
Or maybe a humourous sci-fi short about a space cowboy named Hayden didn't fly well with the prof who was judging (who happened to specialized in Greek tragedy and the classics). Yeah. Anyhoo, that's my second submission to a contest. For those of you keeping score at home this would make it :
Newspaper Fiction Contests - 2; Me - 0
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Still. Fricking. Editing.
It's one thing to write. To just pump out those words everyday. It's quite another to have to read the atrocious swill you churn out and try and make it presentable. I know at least one beta reader is waiting for her copy (Hi Grace!) but it looks like the editing is going about as fast as the writing went. Well, slower, actually. Around 2000ish words a day, every other day or so.
It's a bit of a shock to get to some scenes and find they need almost a complete rewrite. Sure, it's a pleasure to get to a scene that just flows, but those are few and far between. To add insult to injury, all of these scenes have already been edited at least once. Ugh!
Oh yeah, I got my article all printed up nice and purdy on the department news letter. That was exciting. Very very first article printed. Evar!
I'm also working on some short stories. That's a tough go. Hard to trim down a story to be interesting as well as have suitable pace for 2-15,000 words.
Uhm, sorry about no entertainment on this blog post. Er. Uhm. Feeling the pressure to do a little song and dance here. How about I show you how I edit a piece. I'll keep it short.
In general, you want to clarify and pare down. The rule is 10% cut per edit.
So here is a scene in Chapter 13, from 430 words to 380. Hopefully you, the reader, can tell the difference.
BEFORE
Of all the minor annoyances Harold had to endure, this was the one he hated the most. Informing - The - Would - Be - Supreme - Evil - Ruler - That - Their - Best - Laid - Plans - Had - Hit - A - Snag. Luckily, he was only a contract worker for this Would Be Evil Ruler, otherwise, Harold would be buying some Violent and Inexplicable Death Insurance that were all the rage with henchmen and sidekicks the world over.
Edward's lip quivered, "This.. Insatiable, that can't be the one of legend. The one with the.. the.. soap named after it?"
"The very one!" Harold liked to remain chipper during these tasks. No need to let his employer know just how much danger their plans were in. He bared his teeth in the most convival way he could think of, "That's just a tale though. To keep dairy farmer's children in line! The very thought of a cheese pirate being mad and powerful enough to take on a small city! It's, it's pure fantasy. This is what Maarea told me, I'm only the messenger" Harold wondered if his theory on the relative safety of contract evil doers was sound. Edward was no strong man by any leap of the imagination, even an alcohol induced one, even an alcohol and hallucinegenic mushroom induced stretch of the imagination, not even a an alchohol and mushroom induced, look - that - guy - is - totally - staring - you - down - and - calling - in - question - your - sword - play - abilities - you - can - totally - take - him - and - his - battallion - of - ogre - friends stretch of the imagination. In short, Edward was a weak man, even his sense of smell was stronger than his brawn. But that didn't stop him from being a very real menace to Harold. Brawn, in his experience, had nothing over a sly understanding of poisons, a will to do evil consistently, and an evil cackle that could freeze the blood.
Edward cackled evilly freezing Harold's blood. He stopped himself, and looked around his office (this didn't take long, as Edward's office was a repurposed chamber pot closet). Dumb dumb dumb. He should never let his evil cackle of eventual worldwide oppression (and yes, the slow torture and killing of Xor), be revealed at work. As far as everyone was concerned, Lord Ablequarm, Gregor, even Xor, he was a bumbling, forgetful clerical fool with no ambition at all. Well, he would show them, he had ambition. Great gobs of it. Great heaping sloppy ambitiony gobs of it!
"How could this happen? What a utterly random event to put a hamper on my plans. I have no time for this. Did you not see them on the Plains of Light and Magic? They are all here. On time. Bloody well always on time. Can't even be late for The Faire, can they? My plans MUST be into play before they get here!"
AFTER:
Harold hated informing the Would Be Evil Ruler that their Best Laid Plans had Hit A Snag. Luckily, he was only on contract with Edward, otherwise he would have to buy some "Violent and Inexplicable Death" Insurance that was all the rage with henchmen.
Edward's lip quivered, "This.. Insatiable, that can't be the one of legend. The one with the.. the.. soap named after it?"
"The very one!" Harold liked to remain chipper when breaking the news. No need to get his employer more nervous and uppity. He bared his teeth in the most convival way he could manage. "That's just a tale though. To keep dairy farmer's children in line! The very thought of a cheese pirate being mad and powerful enough to take on a small city! It's, it's pure fantasy."
And with that, Harold flapped away into the night.
Flying safely in the night are, Harold wondered if his theory on the safety of contract henchmen was sound. Edward was no strong man by any stretch of the imagination, even an alcohol induced one, even an alcohol and hallucinegenic mushroom induced one, even an alchohol and mushroom induced, look - that - guy - is - totally - staring - you - down - and - questioning - your - sword - play - abilities - you - can - totally - take - him - and - his - ogre - friends stretch of the imagination.
In short, Edward was a weak. But that didn't mean he was wasn't dangerous. Brawn, in Harold's experience, was nothing compared to a sly understanding of poisons, a penchant for evil, and a blood freezing cackle.
Edward laughed a blood freezing cackle. He stopped himself, and looked around his office. Dumb dumb dumb. He should never let his evil cackle of eventual worldwide rule be revealed at work.
As far as everyone was concerned - - Lord Ablequarm, Gregor, even Xor - - he was a bumbling, forgetful clerical fool with no ambition at all. Well, he would show them, he had ambition. Great gobs of it. Great heaping sloppy ambitiony gobs of it!
Edward thought about The Snag he had hitm and muttered under his breath, "How could this happen? What a utterly random event to put a hamper on my plans. I have no time for this. Just look at the Plains of Light and Magic. They are all here. On time. Bloody well always on time. Can't even be late for The Faire, can they? My plans MUST be into play before they get here!"
It's a bit of a shock to get to some scenes and find they need almost a complete rewrite. Sure, it's a pleasure to get to a scene that just flows, but those are few and far between. To add insult to injury, all of these scenes have already been edited at least once. Ugh!
Oh yeah, I got my article all printed up nice and purdy on the department news letter. That was exciting. Very very first article printed. Evar!
I'm also working on some short stories. That's a tough go. Hard to trim down a story to be interesting as well as have suitable pace for 2-15,000 words.
Uhm, sorry about no entertainment on this blog post. Er. Uhm. Feeling the pressure to do a little song and dance here. How about I show you how I edit a piece. I'll keep it short.
In general, you want to clarify and pare down. The rule is 10% cut per edit.
So here is a scene in Chapter 13, from 430 words to 380. Hopefully you, the reader, can tell the difference.
BEFORE
Of all the minor annoyances Harold had to endure, this was the one he hated the most. Informing - The - Would - Be - Supreme - Evil - Ruler - That - Their - Best - Laid - Plans - Had - Hit - A - Snag. Luckily, he was only a contract worker for this Would Be Evil Ruler, otherwise, Harold would be buying some Violent and Inexplicable Death Insurance that were all the rage with henchmen and sidekicks the world over.
Edward's lip quivered, "This.. Insatiable, that can't be the one of legend. The one with the.. the.. soap named after it?"
"The very one!" Harold liked to remain chipper during these tasks. No need to let his employer know just how much danger their plans were in. He bared his teeth in the most convival way he could think of, "That's just a tale though. To keep dairy farmer's children in line! The very thought of a cheese pirate being mad and powerful enough to take on a small city! It's, it's pure fantasy. This is what Maarea told me, I'm only the messenger" Harold wondered if his theory on the relative safety of contract evil doers was sound. Edward was no strong man by any leap of the imagination, even an alcohol induced one, even an alcohol and hallucinegenic mushroom induced stretch of the imagination, not even a an alchohol and mushroom induced, look - that - guy - is - totally - staring - you - down - and - calling - in - question - your - sword - play - abilities - you - can - totally - take - him - and - his - battallion - of - ogre - friends stretch of the imagination. In short, Edward was a weak man, even his sense of smell was stronger than his brawn. But that didn't stop him from being a very real menace to Harold. Brawn, in his experience, had nothing over a sly understanding of poisons, a will to do evil consistently, and an evil cackle that could freeze the blood.
Edward cackled evilly freezing Harold's blood. He stopped himself, and looked around his office (this didn't take long, as Edward's office was a repurposed chamber pot closet). Dumb dumb dumb. He should never let his evil cackle of eventual worldwide oppression (and yes, the slow torture and killing of Xor), be revealed at work. As far as everyone was concerned, Lord Ablequarm, Gregor, even Xor, he was a bumbling, forgetful clerical fool with no ambition at all. Well, he would show them, he had ambition. Great gobs of it. Great heaping sloppy ambitiony gobs of it!
"How could this happen? What a utterly random event to put a hamper on my plans. I have no time for this. Did you not see them on the Plains of Light and Magic? They are all here. On time. Bloody well always on time. Can't even be late for The Faire, can they? My plans MUST be into play before they get here!"
AFTER:
Harold hated informing the Would Be Evil Ruler that their Best Laid Plans had Hit A Snag. Luckily, he was only on contract with Edward, otherwise he would have to buy some "Violent and Inexplicable Death" Insurance that was all the rage with henchmen.
Edward's lip quivered, "This.. Insatiable, that can't be the one of legend. The one with the.. the.. soap named after it?"
"The very one!" Harold liked to remain chipper when breaking the news. No need to get his employer more nervous and uppity. He bared his teeth in the most convival way he could manage. "That's just a tale though. To keep dairy farmer's children in line! The very thought of a cheese pirate being mad and powerful enough to take on a small city! It's, it's pure fantasy."
And with that, Harold flapped away into the night.
Flying safely in the night are, Harold wondered if his theory on the safety of contract henchmen was sound. Edward was no strong man by any stretch of the imagination, even an alcohol induced one, even an alcohol and hallucinegenic mushroom induced one, even an alchohol and mushroom induced, look - that - guy - is - totally - staring - you - down - and - questioning - your - sword - play - abilities - you - can - totally - take - him - and - his - ogre - friends stretch of the imagination.
In short, Edward was a weak. But that didn't mean he was wasn't dangerous. Brawn, in Harold's experience, was nothing compared to a sly understanding of poisons, a penchant for evil, and a blood freezing cackle.
Edward laughed a blood freezing cackle. He stopped himself, and looked around his office. Dumb dumb dumb. He should never let his evil cackle of eventual worldwide rule be revealed at work.
As far as everyone was concerned - - Lord Ablequarm, Gregor, even Xor - - he was a bumbling, forgetful clerical fool with no ambition at all. Well, he would show them, he had ambition. Great gobs of it. Great heaping sloppy ambitiony gobs of it!
Edward thought about The Snag he had hitm and muttered under his breath, "How could this happen? What a utterly random event to put a hamper on my plans. I have no time for this. Just look at the Plains of Light and Magic. They are all here. On time. Bloody well always on time. Can't even be late for The Faire, can they? My plans MUST be into play before they get here!"
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Editing
I'm not sure how many of you are interesting writing, either as a hobby (as it is with me), or as a casual observer (much as say, I take interest in someone who might collect the odd 1960's era Brazilian Pogs issued by the Oscar Myer Corporation), or quite possibly as a pie in the sky hope of one day doing it for a living (also me).
To have more blather, I thought I'd talk about my process. As an unpublished fiction writer. I realize that this is like a carpenter who has never been paid for his work, discussing his woodworking technique. While theoretically it may be correct, its most likely is complete rubbish.
But that's not going to stop me.
So right now I'm going through my final edit (I hope) of my first book. The entire book has gone through at least one revision/edit. Parts have gone through as many as four. The thing about revising and editing is that it's a completely different beast than writing. At least it is for me.
When you're writing, the old adage is "you're allowed to write crap", meaning that you should just pump out that first draft lickety split. Otherwise you procrastinate, take an avid interest in orchid cultivation, start blogging, and in other ways stop yourself from getting those words to hard-disk. So there is a certain freedom to it. You write the most horrid and awkward phrases. You just keep chugging along. You tell yourself, like the hollywood director who has just had a Honda Civic drive through his pastoral setting of 1895 England, "I'll get it in post".
The editing phase is for honing. There is no amateur hour here. You have to write as well (if you are talking genre fiction) as a Stephen King or Terry Brooks. Your lines have to be clean, your meaning clarified from it's current state of murky "coffee pot been sitting for 23 hours" to "something that one might consider drinking" to "as transparent as the Bottled Water cash grab Industry is". Characters have to materialize, plot has to move along, dialogue has to flow, descriptions have to sizzle. There is no net.
This is where the real craft is, I believe.
This is also where you can simply freeze, staring at your words, with no idea how better to rephrase the clunkiest sentence ever put to paper.
To have more blather, I thought I'd talk about my process. As an unpublished fiction writer. I realize that this is like a carpenter who has never been paid for his work, discussing his woodworking technique. While theoretically it may be correct, its most likely is complete rubbish.
But that's not going to stop me.
So right now I'm going through my final edit (I hope) of my first book. The entire book has gone through at least one revision/edit. Parts have gone through as many as four. The thing about revising and editing is that it's a completely different beast than writing. At least it is for me.
When you're writing, the old adage is "you're allowed to write crap", meaning that you should just pump out that first draft lickety split. Otherwise you procrastinate, take an avid interest in orchid cultivation, start blogging, and in other ways stop yourself from getting those words to hard-disk. So there is a certain freedom to it. You write the most horrid and awkward phrases. You just keep chugging along. You tell yourself, like the hollywood director who has just had a Honda Civic drive through his pastoral setting of 1895 England, "I'll get it in post".
The editing phase is for honing. There is no amateur hour here. You have to write as well (if you are talking genre fiction) as a Stephen King or Terry Brooks. Your lines have to be clean, your meaning clarified from it's current state of murky "coffee pot been sitting for 23 hours" to "something that one might consider drinking" to "as transparent as the Bottled Water cash grab Industry is". Characters have to materialize, plot has to move along, dialogue has to flow, descriptions have to sizzle. There is no net.
This is where the real craft is, I believe.
This is also where you can simply freeze, staring at your words, with no idea how better to rephrase the clunkiest sentence ever put to paper.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Wrong Genre?
Ah, that's a question that all writers ask themselves. Or writers of obscure genres that no one reads anymore. Sometimes a reader (meaning work or family friend) reads my stuff, and says, "but it's nothing like your msn convos/blog posts/odd etchings into the bathroom wall that I find so enlightening/humourous/pathetically amusing." Which is true.
I mean, the genre I'm currently writing in (I'm not sure I could write in any other) is called comic fantasy, or humourous fantasy, and it had it's heyday in the 80's. It still is enormously strong in the UK (as in, almost Harry Potterish strong), but it's dominated by one and one writer, Terry Pratchett. It's not very widely read except apparently by the English, between their musings on their latent and declining naval powers and that charming period that they had the entire world at their feet. All while eating crumpets and scones, of course.
So the sorts of people who I would hope would find my stuff entertaining would be the same sort who thought "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" was fantastic, "The Neverending Story" was a charmer, Terry Pratchett is god, and understood almost every joke tossed into the "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" series. This is not a large group. This is the same group that, perhaps, found programming their Texas Instruments calculators to be the height of frivolity. The sort that tivo every episode of Mythbusters. The sort who watch Battlestar Galactica mainly to point out it's deficiencies to the 80's classic. Again, a small, small group.
So my hope is that the sorts of people who enjoy the preceding activities and media will find my book mildly amusing. Perhaps enough to spend 7 bucks on it in a paperback. But maybe not. It's a long shot, as there isn't really anyone in North America writing this sort of stuff, that I know of.
But in the end, it's just the sort of stories that I would like to read. Some people who have read it abhor it. Some people don't get it at all. And a very small number think it's pretty entertaining. So don't worry if you are reading it and want to take a toothbrush to your brain in an effort to clean it free from all references of pandas named Steve. Or cheese pirates. Or multi-tiered floating cities. That's completely normal.
I mean, the genre I'm currently writing in (I'm not sure I could write in any other) is called comic fantasy, or humourous fantasy, and it had it's heyday in the 80's. It still is enormously strong in the UK (as in, almost Harry Potterish strong), but it's dominated by one and one writer, Terry Pratchett. It's not very widely read except apparently by the English, between their musings on their latent and declining naval powers and that charming period that they had the entire world at their feet. All while eating crumpets and scones, of course.
So the sorts of people who I would hope would find my stuff entertaining would be the same sort who thought "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" was fantastic, "The Neverending Story" was a charmer, Terry Pratchett is god, and understood almost every joke tossed into the "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" series. This is not a large group. This is the same group that, perhaps, found programming their Texas Instruments calculators to be the height of frivolity. The sort that tivo every episode of Mythbusters. The sort who watch Battlestar Galactica mainly to point out it's deficiencies to the 80's classic. Again, a small, small group.
So my hope is that the sorts of people who enjoy the preceding activities and media will find my book mildly amusing. Perhaps enough to spend 7 bucks on it in a paperback. But maybe not. It's a long shot, as there isn't really anyone in North America writing this sort of stuff, that I know of.
But in the end, it's just the sort of stories that I would like to read. Some people who have read it abhor it. Some people don't get it at all. And a very small number think it's pretty entertaining. So don't worry if you are reading it and want to take a toothbrush to your brain in an effort to clean it free from all references of pandas named Steve. Or cheese pirates. Or multi-tiered floating cities. That's completely normal.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
First Rejection Letter
Mmmmm, rejection. Got my very very first agent rejection a few days ago. It was pretty cool, actually, as he detailed what he didn't like about it (which apparently, is the sub-genre).That's the next best thing to an agent taking you on, as 90% of time it's form letters. Which, thinking about it, this might very well have been. Meaning this agent gets a bevy of humourous fantasy novels involving dancing pandas. Damnable saturated markets!
I know in my head that I'm going to getting alot more of these rejection letters. But, you know, it still sucks. In some ways, it's the only objective assessment of one's work. The willingingess of someone to stake part of their income on you. Because the fact of the matter is, no one you know... or probably no one you know, is willing to say "Guess what, this sucks. Hard. Like, enough to pressure wash the Empire State building." Which is also a nature of the craft. Doubly so if you are attempting to write things that are funny. Sometimes when writing, I feel like the papa fish in "Finding Nemo", the blank computer screen leaning ever so slightly in and saying "So, you're a 'humour' writer eh? Say something funny..." with that expectant pause.
I'm reminded of a really pithy, if simplistic Heinlein's Rules of Writing:
1. You must write.
2. You must finish what you write.
3. You must not revise except to editorial direction.
4. You must send out what you have written.
5. You must keep sending out things you have written until they sell.
Let me tell you, 4 and 5 are a complete bitch.
I know in my head that I'm going to getting alot more of these rejection letters. But, you know, it still sucks. In some ways, it's the only objective assessment of one's work. The willingingess of someone to stake part of their income on you. Because the fact of the matter is, no one you know... or probably no one you know, is willing to say "Guess what, this sucks. Hard. Like, enough to pressure wash the Empire State building." Which is also a nature of the craft. Doubly so if you are attempting to write things that are funny. Sometimes when writing, I feel like the papa fish in "Finding Nemo", the blank computer screen leaning ever so slightly in and saying "So, you're a 'humour' writer eh? Say something funny..." with that expectant pause.
I'm reminded of a really pithy, if simplistic Heinlein's Rules of Writing:
1. You must write.
2. You must finish what you write.
3. You must not revise except to editorial direction.
4. You must send out what you have written.
5. You must keep sending out things you have written until they sell.
Let me tell you, 4 and 5 are a complete bitch.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Writing Really Really Poorly
'Winners' of the worst first lines competition. Here's the thing. I've written PLENTY of lines like that in my writing. And not all of them are caught in editing. Oh despair!
I'm pretty sure all those 'winners' didn't intend to write poor sentences. But you just get too close to the writing. Like a myopic member of the bomb squad, you know you are working with something terribly dangerous, but you just can't see it, no matter how much you want to. No matter how strong your preference for "not being blown to small, vulture digestible chunks" is, those clunky sentences aren't going to reveal themselves.
And, if you've been reading this blog at all, you know I'm the master of clunky sentences. For me, it's a matter of attention span. Why write a single sentence to mean one idea, when you can write one sentence with twenty eight parenthetical statements, a footnote, 3 endnotes, an aside and maybe an idea or twelve? I blame my youth, young adulthood, adulthood, and any other hood i'm in for, spent on video games. Lovley, attention obliterating video games. Mmmm, focus, it's what's for dinner.
Back to writing poor sentences. Sometimes when I'm writing, it's a chore just to get out a single paragraph. Clunkiness is the name of the day. Participles hanging, gerunds, subjunctive clauses, and many more grammary things that I talk about and drop in passing but which, if pressed, I wouldn't be able to distinguish from a 2nd tier NFL football team. Or first tier. Or any tier of any sport that isn't sponsored by Nvidia™ and or Intel™. If you didn't get that joke, then there is a marked lower probability that you have a Star Trek™ uniform in your closet. Even lower chance that you have a Star Trek™ uniform in your closet not just for the kitsch value.
Out of things to say for now. Count yourself lucky, I almost had an entire post going about kitsch.
(What the hell is kitsch? Is it like, crap that's not cool unless that terribly eccentric hipster with the CDs of bands that never made it (becaause they didn't sell out (and also, because they sucked ass)) and the kicky cardigan with the ironic hammer and sickle embroidered in the sleeve says it is? It's like the cool kids arbitrarily deciding what's cool and what's not. Not that what is cool and what's not isn't completely arbitrary. I'm just against any individual having conscious input into it. Massive corporations that sell a marketing logo sewn ontop of the same sweat-shop produced garments I get at WalMart, yes, Cody down the street who finds any main stream film (or any film not film on a super 8 and written in ancient Uzbekistani) just not cool enough, no. )
Damn, it's 12:30 and I still haven't got any words down today for my book. Have at ye!
I'm pretty sure all those 'winners' didn't intend to write poor sentences. But you just get too close to the writing. Like a myopic member of the bomb squad, you know you are working with something terribly dangerous, but you just can't see it, no matter how much you want to. No matter how strong your preference for "not being blown to small, vulture digestible chunks" is, those clunky sentences aren't going to reveal themselves.
And, if you've been reading this blog at all, you know I'm the master of clunky sentences. For me, it's a matter of attention span. Why write a single sentence to mean one idea, when you can write one sentence with twenty eight parenthetical statements, a footnote, 3 endnotes, an aside and maybe an idea or twelve? I blame my youth, young adulthood, adulthood, and any other hood i'm in for, spent on video games. Lovley, attention obliterating video games. Mmmm, focus, it's what's for dinner.
Back to writing poor sentences. Sometimes when I'm writing, it's a chore just to get out a single paragraph. Clunkiness is the name of the day. Participles hanging, gerunds, subjunctive clauses, and many more grammary things that I talk about and drop in passing but which, if pressed, I wouldn't be able to distinguish from a 2nd tier NFL football team. Or first tier. Or any tier of any sport that isn't sponsored by Nvidia™ and or Intel™. If you didn't get that joke, then there is a marked lower probability that you have a Star Trek™ uniform in your closet. Even lower chance that you have a Star Trek™ uniform in your closet not just for the kitsch value.
Out of things to say for now. Count yourself lucky, I almost had an entire post going about kitsch.
(What the hell is kitsch? Is it like, crap that's not cool unless that terribly eccentric hipster with the CDs of bands that never made it (becaause they didn't sell out (and also, because they sucked ass)) and the kicky cardigan with the ironic hammer and sickle embroidered in the sleeve says it is? It's like the cool kids arbitrarily deciding what's cool and what's not. Not that what is cool and what's not isn't completely arbitrary. I'm just against any individual having conscious input into it. Massive corporations that sell a marketing logo sewn ontop of the same sweat-shop produced garments I get at WalMart, yes, Cody down the street who finds any main stream film (or any film not film on a super 8 and written in ancient Uzbekistani) just not cool enough, no. )
Damn, it's 12:30 and I still haven't got any words down today for my book. Have at ye!
Thursday, December 14, 2006
New Book
I'm working on a new novel. Because editing my first one can get me down. A lot. But so far, this new book is just a shit ton of dialogue. Just endless reams of it. I hope it's entertaining, I'm never really sure if it is. But dialogue seems to be the easiest, and sometimes, when I'm really really tired, the dialogue just seems to write itself. Metric tons of TV memories of stereotypical characaters chatting away. So it's more like transcribing, actually.
The genre is still Fantasy, but a different sub genre. Because I felt humour fanatasy wasn't obscure enough and embarassing enough to talk about at cocktail parties (what is this? 1961? who goes to cocktail parties?). And I like a challenge. Writing in what are effectively dead genres is a bit of a downer. Very hard, as in impossible to find anyone who is writing in the same genre. Most folks who do fantasy that I've chatted with, are doing epic/high fantasy (think Lord of the Rings) or adolescent fantasy (harry potter). Oh well, this writing thing is just a hobby, something that I amuse myself with, so I'm not worried about the viability of the books. And sometimes, I actually believe that lie :)
I might post a snippet of one of my books sometime on the blog. But in a blatant attempt to find out how many of the 200 unique visitors or so I've had, let's get a vote of hands, via comments, on who would actually want to read a bit of either?
So, sleepy. But must. write.
The genre is still Fantasy, but a different sub genre. Because I felt humour fanatasy wasn't obscure enough and embarassing enough to talk about at cocktail parties (what is this? 1961? who goes to cocktail parties?). And I like a challenge. Writing in what are effectively dead genres is a bit of a downer. Very hard, as in impossible to find anyone who is writing in the same genre. Most folks who do fantasy that I've chatted with, are doing epic/high fantasy (think Lord of the Rings) or adolescent fantasy (harry potter). Oh well, this writing thing is just a hobby, something that I amuse myself with, so I'm not worried about the viability of the books. And sometimes, I actually believe that lie :)
I might post a snippet of one of my books sometime on the blog. But in a blatant attempt to find out how many of the 200 unique visitors or so I've had, let's get a vote of hands, via comments, on who would actually want to read a bit of either?
So, sleepy. But must. write.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
I don’t even see the code anymore;
I'm getting ready to send out my submission packet. Send my baby out into the big wide world to be rejectamacated. A bit light at first, just two: one to a publisher and one to an agent. I'm planning on having this baby go through about 75 or so rejections before I shelve it.
I've read the same 50 or so pages like five times already. After a while, all the jokes kinda fall flat. I don't even know what the hell I"m reading and why I'd be bothering anyone with it. Yeah, I know, angst angst, slit slit. It's kinda like video games. After a while, the neat little graphicy explosions and stuff just fade away, and all you really experience is the gameplay. I call it my Tetris theory. And if any of that made sense, congrats, you are a nerd.
After reading the same stuff over and over again, you actually sort of memorize it, and your brain just glosses over it. I think that's natures way of telling me to just send it off already. Why nature would butt her nosy little ass into my business of horrid novel writing, I have no idea. Apparently the whole Intelligent Design dunderheads aren't keeping her busy enough. I'm not sure why some neo-con political group in the US would affect an anthropomorphic metaphor for the biosphere and all the macro and micro interactions that make up what we call the Living World (not to be confused with the Unliving World, which makes for excellent fodder for zombie flicks, zombie games, and justifications of the Goth Lifestyle(tm)).
They say a writer is never done editing a book, he just abandons it. And that's what I'm doing. I can only read my own tired writing so many times. I'm itching to get a new novel started. It's also getting pretty depressing to find myself doing tons of fricking work every single time I edit. It's supposed to be LESS editing each pass. I guess I can take comfort in the idea that few of my writer heroes ever got their FIRST novel published, it was usually their second or third.
Well, the two submissions are all addressed and stuff, and ready to go. Fire in the hole, as it were.
I've read the same 50 or so pages like five times already. After a while, all the jokes kinda fall flat. I don't even know what the hell I"m reading and why I'd be bothering anyone with it. Yeah, I know, angst angst, slit slit. It's kinda like video games. After a while, the neat little graphicy explosions and stuff just fade away, and all you really experience is the gameplay. I call it my Tetris theory. And if any of that made sense, congrats, you are a nerd.
After reading the same stuff over and over again, you actually sort of memorize it, and your brain just glosses over it. I think that's natures way of telling me to just send it off already. Why nature would butt her nosy little ass into my business of horrid novel writing, I have no idea. Apparently the whole Intelligent Design dunderheads aren't keeping her busy enough. I'm not sure why some neo-con political group in the US would affect an anthropomorphic metaphor for the biosphere and all the macro and micro interactions that make up what we call the Living World (not to be confused with the Unliving World, which makes for excellent fodder for zombie flicks, zombie games, and justifications of the Goth Lifestyle(tm)).
They say a writer is never done editing a book, he just abandons it. And that's what I'm doing. I can only read my own tired writing so many times. I'm itching to get a new novel started. It's also getting pretty depressing to find myself doing tons of fricking work every single time I edit. It's supposed to be LESS editing each pass. I guess I can take comfort in the idea that few of my writer heroes ever got their FIRST novel published, it was usually their second or third.
Well, the two submissions are all addressed and stuff, and ready to go. Fire in the hole, as it were.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Novel Synopsis
I realize that some of have no idea what my novel is about. That's probably because I haven't told you combined with the unfortunate fact that you most likely don't have ESP. My main reasons for not talking about it was because it was mind-bogglingly silly. It still is. The more tangential reason was because I wanted to finish it first. Well, it's done (sorta).
So, without further adieu, here is my pitch:
What is the only thing that a menacingly artistic panda, a suicidally brave boy hunter, and an unconventionally gadgeteering gnome have in common? The Faire, an annual festival in the Land of Ga for just about everything.
"Dance Panda, Dance" is a mildy humourous novel written with obsequious adulation to Terry Pratchett, Michael Ende, and Douglas Adams. Set in the fantastic and wonderously absurd Land of Ga, where Cheese Pirates and Dagger Dwarves roam. It is the story of Steve, a panda, Patrick, a gnome, and Enkidu the hunter, who want, more than anything, to get to The Faire.
Edward, a Fourth Level Scroll Clerk, might put a tiny hiccup in their plans. As it's at The Faire where he hopes to start his very own violent and bloody revolution. Before The Faire is done, the pair will unwittingly be a pawn in his diabolical plan, have to thwart the plans, survive any fallout, and prove themselves to the world.
This is a story about how in losing your way, you can find true friendship, find yourself, and if you happen to help a maniacal paper pusher with visions of totalitarian rule, find the strength in yourself to stop him.
Will Edward spark the revolution his blind and ruthless ambition thirst for? Will the three travellers make it through the sometimes treacherous, other times absurd, and always wonderous Land of Ga and get to The Faire? And if they do, how will they thwart Edward's plans, save The Faire, and save themselves?
So, without further adieu, here is my pitch:
What is the only thing that a menacingly artistic panda, a suicidally brave boy hunter, and an unconventionally gadgeteering gnome have in common? The Faire, an annual festival in the Land of Ga for just about everything.
"Dance Panda, Dance" is a mildy humourous novel written with obsequious adulation to Terry Pratchett, Michael Ende, and Douglas Adams. Set in the fantastic and wonderously absurd Land of Ga, where Cheese Pirates and Dagger Dwarves roam. It is the story of Steve, a panda, Patrick, a gnome, and Enkidu the hunter, who want, more than anything, to get to The Faire.
Edward, a Fourth Level Scroll Clerk, might put a tiny hiccup in their plans. As it's at The Faire where he hopes to start his very own violent and bloody revolution. Before The Faire is done, the pair will unwittingly be a pawn in his diabolical plan, have to thwart the plans, survive any fallout, and prove themselves to the world.
This is a story about how in losing your way, you can find true friendship, find yourself, and if you happen to help a maniacal paper pusher with visions of totalitarian rule, find the strength in yourself to stop him.
Will Edward spark the revolution his blind and ruthless ambition thirst for? Will the three travellers make it through the sometimes treacherous, other times absurd, and always wonderous Land of Ga and get to The Faire? And if they do, how will they thwart Edward's plans, save The Faire, and save themselves?
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