tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81312215163098226222024-03-13T03:54:07.772-07:00Progress in Work: Notes on the Writing ProcessJuleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-38733679429011747132011-08-11T15:22:00.001-07:002011-08-11T15:31:04.188-07:00Good is not fast is not betterhttp://www.slate.com/id/2301243/
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<br />This post reminds me, sadly or not-so-sadly, of the time my dad decided to try his hand at writing something. This, from a man who'd never written anything before in his life. Who rarely read anything, near as I can tell, either. Or rather, he read a lot, but not for a feeling of style and organization. And did I mention he's absolutely nuts?
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<br />Now, a lot of people say that about their parents: they're nuts. But sanity and insanity are relative, and what scales you use for one are inapplicable for the other. It makes an interesting frame-of-reference debate, the sort where, like Newton and his bucket of water, you ask which one is spinning. Only there is no absolute space.
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<br />Anyway, he churned out a 91,000-page manuscript in about a month, which is awesome. That some of the facts didn't compute, the language was atrocious, the points obtuse, and the general gist of the book didn't seem to make any sense...less awesome.
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<br />You can't make this stuff up: when I asked him why he didn't want me to seriously edit the damn thing and make it understandable, he said, "Because nobody can understand it."
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<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-11058284836889815232011-08-06T11:22:00.001-07:002011-08-06T11:29:36.619-07:00Writing beyond the blockI'm working on a very complicated novel involving twin brothers, the end of the US, telepathy, and a gun named "Coraline". So far there has been a helicopter, a wedding, and lots of repressed anger. <br /><br />Like the NaNoWriMo I wrote last year, I started this only after I worked out how it ends (not prettily). But unlike NaNoWriMo, it's been slow and painstaking and the characters end up in situations that I hadn't planned and things happen and the parts that I thought I would linger on barely get mentioned, while blood and gore (well, gore) cover the pages. I've also been getting hung up on every other page with scenes that won't work, and obssessing about them until they do. <br /><br />It is quite possibly my most favorite--and my most pain-in-the-ass story. Kind of like the Tweeb.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-73501906444888961322011-06-19T23:05:00.000-07:002011-06-19T23:39:56.848-07:00Never Trust an Interior DesignerMorgan was the kind of twit who paid £2000 for an old Spitfire and £3000 to get it fixed up, chromed, and re-lacquered, so that when he showed up at a client's home the first thing they would see was a car that reminded their genetic memory of the good old days, even if they were too young for the days, or even if they were old enough to know better. The car had to represent more than just a car to his clients: it had to represent style, aspiration, and above all, that nebulous thing called "good taste" which his services promised to render to their house. British cars, he was fond of saying, might be worth diddly on the road, but nobody could fault their looks. <div><br /></div><div>He himself had a spritely look about him: he was lean and reminded people vaguely of Prince Charles. He looked a sight better than that horse-faced member of the royal house, but he walked with the same measured dignity that the prince used on his public perambulations, and always wore a clean suit, carefully matched so as to be unmemorable as possible. You didn't pay to remember him, after all. You paid so that people could remember your house. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was almost beautiful, how they opened up to him--all in the interest of "finding their style", of course. There were no fronts to put up when they so openly invited him in to plumb their closets, divine their lives. This dent in the wallpaper meant an abusive relationship, that dog meant a merely unhappy one. Putting a new couch in front of the window signified that she was cheating on him; painting a room red meant he was screwing on the side. Men wanted textures, women wanted lines. But above all, they wanted to be better than themselves. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which they couldn't be, of course, not unless they wanted to rewrite their memories and their lives. But he didn't tell them that--he gave them what they wanted--beautiful things--and didn't return their phone calls when everything came crashing down. </div><div><br /></div>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-7481609544887106012011-06-14T04:52:00.000-07:002011-06-14T05:07:18.504-07:00Make Stones WeepStones don't cry when they shatter on the ground. The peculiar property of stone-ness means that these inert objects accept the transfer of kinetic energy with a silence that can only be described as stony. The pebbles that come of boulders retain the former properties of the stone--just in smaller pieces, smaller and smaller. At some point, it is said, a stone is no longer a stone. At which point, by definition, it must weep. <br /><br />And, in doing so, it must gain tears--pain--feeling--soul. So be careful with stones. And be careful with souls. To make stones weep is no hard thing, but to heal a soul requires more than just mortar and brick.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-33015754962768106222011-06-09T01:56:00.000-07:002011-06-09T01:58:37.677-07:00I should probably be panickingBut I'm not. I have another watercolor to start and one more to finish. Next week we're starting the prep work for a party and I have a job interview. <br /><br />Oddly, I seem to have calmed down about all this. Because, you see, contrary to popular belief about artists, it's all about the plan.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-3282665350706794352011-05-24T23:55:00.000-07:002011-05-25T00:01:54.550-07:00At least I have a title?The title is: God Guides Me. <br /><br />Now, if only I can write the story that accompanies it...<br /><br />On the plus side, I've been reading more fiction lately. This means that I'll be writing less science-y and more prose-like.<br /><br />On the minus side, Criminal Minds is on tonight, and I am totally addicted to that show, even more so than I was with House. I also like NCIS, and I think what makes these two shows in particular so much fun is how great everybody gets along. Even when they do have tiffs, they stick together in the end. People dynamics are always fascinating.<br /><br />Hmmmmmm....Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-34022649549218696362011-05-17T22:50:00.000-07:002011-05-17T23:53:22.241-07:00ObviouslyI've been wanting to extend one of my short stories into either a story collection or a novel. I've already written a novella-ish-length novel around one minor character, which was fun, but it wasn't the extension that I wanted to do.<br /><br />In retrospect, the extension seemed obvious--an expansion on a previously-explored plot point which didn't make it into the final cut of the story. I really just don't understand why it took me so long to figure that out.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-72672587479730010082011-05-11T00:18:00.000-07:002011-05-11T00:20:07.739-07:00Finally getting back into thingsYeah, it's been a while here. Some things blew up, some things slowed down. <br /><br />Working on two books: one is a novel, the other is a book about Dutch food. <br /><br />Hope they work out.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-51801143781064026152011-02-06T01:24:00.000-08:002011-02-06T01:31:17.104-08:00Nice QuoteI don't like to post quotes, because nothing seems so cliché as to confess to being unable to think of something yourself. <br /><br />But every now and then, I come upon a good one. Too good not to repost, because it is 100% true:<br /><br />If you're going to be a writer, the first essential<br /> is just to write. Do not wait for an idea. Start<br /> writing something and the ideas will come. You have<br /> to turn the faucet on before the water starts to flow."<br /><br /> ~ Louis L'Amour<br /><br />Something about the very act of writing--physically writing with a pen and paper, not typing--lets ideas creep their way in. You start getting more and more ideas--and that's when you want to turn to the computer to get them all down before they start going away.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-30130921264926130882011-02-04T23:50:00.000-08:002011-02-05T00:03:29.847-08:00This is why it's called workThis week I started 4 drafts for Outside Looking In, all pretty good ideas--leaving my job, my allergies to our FatBoy--and eventually ended up publishing exactly 1. <br /><br />This weekend I will send out two shorts to some small lit mags, and start writing up my next short, based on CPR.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-53368080441490729332011-01-31T12:27:00.000-08:002011-01-31T12:37:53.244-08:00New beginningsI'm leaving my paying day job for a future of long shots and high uncertainty, to write full-time. <br /><br />This will be the second time that I've tried to do this. The first time, I didn't have a plan--or a clue. Now, I have both. I'll probably still end up working some part-time something-or-other, but I can call myself a writer.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-15001929724252598812011-01-22T22:10:00.000-08:002011-01-22T22:30:38.437-08:00Bad reputationWriting has the reputation of being a non-job: you set your own hours, choose your own assignments, write what you feel like, and put it out there. It's something that everybody thinks they can do, and thus it's hard to find anybody who can actually do it well. <div><br /></div><div>But it's not that simple. You really have to pick and choose things that you really like and really care about. And you can't know what you like or care about until you've lived a little, which is, I think, why most young writers are terrible. </div><div><br /></div><div>And it's hard. It's not just the self-discipline to finish things on schedule. It's the self-discipline to finish things on schedule and <i>not have them be anything less than your best </i><b style="font-style: italic; ">every time. </b>Like all creative endeavors, you are constantly being judged, unfairly or not, on what you publish, and the moment you slip, it's over. It's worse, in many ways, than being a celebrity: at least they get glitzy dresses and lots of money for their troubles. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Love what you do" is one of those clichés about work that everybody tosses around, but you can get by in most jobs without actually loving anything about what you do--you have to like it enough to do a good job, but you don't need to think about it 24/7 and unless you let it, it's not going to cut into dinner with your kids or cuddle-time with your cats. But you really have to love writing in order to make anything like a living out of it, because there's no other way to survive the constant rejections, or even the constructive criticism that your real friends* will give you.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >*Seriously, take your worst POS you've ever written and show it to your friends. The good ones will tell you, "Dude, I love you, but this sucks." Those are the ones you need to keep. </span> </div><div><br /></div>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-21089715374544318802011-01-14T23:39:00.001-08:002011-01-14T23:43:47.433-08:00Mom isn't always rightYou'd expect that my parents would be thrilled to know that I've gotten a contract. Two of them, now, actually. But no, they're not. Here's my theory: if I'd been my sister, and had landed a contract, they would have been thrilled. She's the writer, I'm supposed to be the doctor. <br /><br />It says something about their world view, doesn't it, that they can't seem to get around that.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-35210435963970324012011-01-11T06:29:00.001-08:002011-01-11T06:42:08.233-08:00Cracks in the DirtJim was worried. <br /><br />Maybe he shouldn't have planted the seeds, though "threw out the door after your ex-girlfriend" wasn't exactly "planting". He didn't even know where they came from--China, perhaps, or was it Thailand? Wherever they came from was wherever his ex had been, little spores of her worldliness come home to haunt him. <br /><br />It'd been a muggy three days since she'd come by in her glitzy BMW to drop off his things he'd put into storage when they moved in together. Three days, and his front door was hanging crooked, and there was a forest taller than a man in the middle of the dirt driveway.<br /><br />By day five, the roots had sent runners shooting up from the mailbox, but it wasn't until he sat down in front of the TV that evening when he noticed the crack in the paint--and a small green shoot peeking out from the floorboards. <br /><br />Around him, the house groaned, and he imagined another root, shooting through another clump of dirt. Texas summer, he thought idly, as a he cracked open the warm beer. He didn't even taste the plaster chips in the cup.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-37222657142169828892011-01-01T01:07:00.000-08:002011-01-01T01:18:33.676-08:00Pitter patterCats are on my mind these days. They flit in and out of my mind the way they pit-pat in and out of the room--silent and ghostly presences auguring nothing and everything. I can't begin to comprehend these creatures, what brings them to my mind, why they are there, how they steal little bits of my thoughts--not the maelstrom of ideas, but always the core that holds them together--what I lose, and/or gain from my associations with them. Cats are on my mind these days, and I am thankful that they do not speak. Better not to know what I have lost to them.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-2910571478909060232010-12-23T11:27:00.001-08:002010-12-23T11:29:34.117-08:00Deep thoughts and short storiesI've decided to post one micro-short per week here. Should be interesting to try to come up with those ideas...my boyfriend and I have decided that I should write a story about socks in that other universe. You know, the one where the partners of your widowed and orphaned socks disappear to. What happens when one finds its way back? <div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-70695233379562402702010-12-02T13:02:00.000-08:002010-12-02T13:14:43.029-08:00SuperheroThe best thing about having done and won NaNoWriMo is that it has really made me think I can do anything. I mean, yes, it was a silly goal: write a book in a month. But it took serious dedication to sit my ass down every night and come up with those 1667 words. Sometimes I stopped halfway through, sometimes I went above and beyond, but on November 30, I had my 50,000+ words.<br /><br />The whole process of writing--having a plan, the elation, the setbacks, ignoring my inner editor in pursuit of that incredible 50,000-word goal, and NOT having it suck--has really made me rethink my attitude in some other aspects of my life. It's like, "Okay, I've written a novel--a thesis shouldn't be a problem at all."<br /><br />It's also given me some insight into my writing: namely, planning is actually kind of important if I ever want to finish anything. But that's true of all life. <br /><br />This month I will be devoting my energies to plotting out a how-to-create-an-apocalypse novel, while painting another mushroom.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-41222873821099636542010-11-30T13:33:00.000-08:002010-11-30T13:36:46.382-08:00Hell YESI made it. 50,000+ words before midnight. <br /><br />And the thing is, it's not just that I won with the word count, although to be completely honest I would have been PISSED if I'd run completely out of story before the end (it was hovering at 48,000 for a little while). It's that I had a complicated, interesting, story that needed a lot of time and space to develop, and I gave it that time and that space and I think, once I go back and red-line the more terrible bits, that by and large it might actually be pretty good. <br /><br />In other words, I started a story. AND I F*CKING FINISHED IT. <br /><br />WOOT.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-21943907311500845112010-11-22T10:05:00.000-08:002010-11-22T10:08:35.961-08:00You don't know the half of itMost people think that the hardest part about writing a novel is staying focused, finding the right words, conveying the right emotion at the right time. <br /><br />That's actually the easiest part. <br /><br />The hardest part of writing is going back through what you've written--taking your pride and joy--and figuring out what sucks, what works, and hitting the "delete" key.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-82068213100022855102010-11-19T23:10:00.000-08:002010-11-19T23:22:47.571-08:00Good ideasIdeas don't come easily to me, which might be surprising if you thought that all artistic types are virtually brimming with some vision or other, ideas spewing all over the place. <br /><br />And the ones that come don't usually stay for the party. If it's an interesting thought, I'll usually ponder that for a little while, and then discard it in the face of more immediate problems at work, like figuring out why some invoice for a sh*t-ton of money didn't get paid. <br /><br />The good ideas--the best ones--the ones I actually do something with--come back again. After six months or so, but they do come back. It's hard to say exactly what will be a good idea: an offhand comment on an email, watching my cats play, a lyric to a song I haven't heard in ages. Inspiration comes from the weirdest places. <br /><br />I suppose, if I were any better at capturing ideas, I'd be a lot more prolific. As it is, well, I don't work at a lab because I like breaking the rules.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-31048887849482152422010-11-18T13:30:00.000-08:002010-11-18T13:37:21.907-08:00Neverending chapter<span style="font-weight:bold;">An excerpt from tonight's chapter:</span> <br /><br />“It's a good thing my dad disowned me,” Carla remarked. “I don't know what he'd do if he found out that I not only dating a white guy, but also a Catholic.” <br /><br />“Get all your sinning over and done with,” Wes said, laughing. “Anyway, I was supposed to be a priest, and instead I end up promoting science over religion when it comes to healing, so I guess being a priest wasn't what I was meant to do, anyway.”<br /> <br />“Do you still believe?” Carla asked.<br /><br />“I do,” Wes said, as solemnly as he would confirm a wedding vow. “I never stopped believing in the Lord. Only in men.”<br /><br /><b>Up until now, my NaNoWriMo has been following the outline pretty closely. I've added a few things here and there, but overall everything's worked out and everything's following the script. <br /><br />And then Whistler decided not to deny what he'd done, and Wes decided not to wait, and a metaphysical discussion which was supposed to eat up at least a few thousand words never happened. I've lost an entire chapter and it all seems to be going to hell in a royal handbasket. <br /><br />But it's okay, because <i>I know how it ends</i>. </b>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-91281078249252357182010-11-17T10:28:00.000-08:002010-11-17T10:29:41.585-08:00ExcerptFrom "Made" (which, hopefully with my sister's help will become a graphic novella at some point):<br /><br />Ulysses's jaw flapped open and shut uselessly—it was true enough, what Ryan said, but Ulysses couldn't wrap his head around the flippant way he'd said it, especially since Ryan had impressed upon him the greatest need for utmost secrecy. His father glanced at Ryan—the tailored suit, the silk tie, the slick shoes—and back at Ulysses. Ulysses looked away, trying to avoid his father's goggle-eyed stare, but when his father touched his hand again he flinched away, and said, quietly, “He made me.”<br /> <br />At that moment Ulysses could see the realization of his complete loss come over his father's face. The man seemed to deflate, and he left the bar without another word.<br /> <br />Ryan turned to him, then. He touched Ulysses' face, his fingers tracing the delicate cheekbones and the neat nose, his features that weren't his. “I did make you,” Ryan said. “And you're beautiful.”<br /> <br />Ulysses wanted to say, “That wasn't what I meant,” but he couldn't bring himself to break the rapture on Ryan's face. “Come on,” Ryan said, his voice so gentle, so soft. “Let's go home.” It was all Ulysses could do to nod, and follow.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-46179831195509716782010-11-15T10:25:00.000-08:002010-11-15T10:32:32.990-08:00It's more of a panic, reallyWhen my other blog, Outside Looking In, got nominated as one of Go Overseas! top ten blogs about life in the Netherlands, I called my mom to give her the great news. She was happy for me, albeit a little confused: she doesn't quite see the point of letting the entire world read about my life. And she also couldn't conceive of what in my life would be worth posting about.<br /><br />If I stop and think about it (which I don't, except for now), it really is remarkable that I've managed to keep a blog about living in the Netherlands for over a year. I mean, I'm not a member of the criminal underworld, I work in a lab, and my biggest kick of the week is going home to see my boyfriend and kitties. How I manage to keep finding things to write about, twice a week, is true "there but for the Grace of God go I" writing.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-6247843524455782002010-11-13T23:42:00.000-08:002010-11-13T23:50:56.536-08:00Finer MomentsAn excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel, one of the better moments: <br /><br />“Carla, dearest,” he said, when he answered the door. He stood a good six feet tall, barrel-chested from years on the job, lifting and hammering and doing whatever the job demanded. Carla still remembered clambering over his shoulders as a child, how large they seemed. Now, age had softened his physique a bit, but he was still imposing, still strong, and still her godfather, smiling at her as he had always done. “Come in, come in.”<br /> <br />She smiled and obeyed. “I can't stay for too long, Albert,” she said. <br /> <br />“I know, I know. Job interview in Maine—what the hell's in Maine, anyway?” he asked.<br /> <br />“Even the lobsters need hospitals?” she asked, shrugging out of her coat. He hung it up in the closet. They both laughed. “How are Nina and the girls?” she asked. Nina was Albert's wife—they had two daughters between them, both of them grown, married, with children—normal. <br /> <br />“They're doing just fine,” he said, waving her into a couch. “They all want to know, what the hell did you do to that guy?”<br /> <br />“He was going to kill a man,” she said quietly. <br /> <br />“I'm not sayin' you weren't right,” he said. <br /> <br />“You're not saying I was.”<br /> <br />“There's only one Judge whose opinion matters worth a damn,” Albert said. “And I don't think He gives a shit what the jury says.”Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8131221516309822622.post-59436253722651059842010-11-11T12:43:00.000-08:002010-11-11T12:55:43.949-08:00Brute ForceI've always been more of a believer in quantity over quality. I'd rather have one nice thick fuzzy sweater than three thin things that can barely keep me warm. The same is true for writing--I at least have to like what it is I'm writing. <br /><br />That being said, doing NaNoWriMo is opening me up to the merits of brute force writing. Screw pretty, screw prose, screw grammar, screw spelling--just write. Eventually you'll get an idea at some point (usually the 10 minute mark). And eventually you'll reach your requisite 1667 words for that day. <br /><br />Having this requisite number changes the way I write: it's liberating, in the sense that I'm not as worried about structuring the story and can just focus on telling it--although that's probably due to my extensive outline and pre-NaNoWriMo work. I am not worried about tangents, not worried about developing themes (I am going to have a headache and a half when I go back and develop all of the themes which have popped up so far), not worried about character development. I am just writing 1,667 words per day, every day.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15177864294778546164noreply@blogger.com0