Reality Bites

"Is it real, or did you just make that up?" This phrase marches through my head when I write a scene. My deeper subconscious houses the ever present Ugly Inner Critic. At times he's silent, but his snickers aren't lost on me whenever I wonder if the scene I've just written will end up at the end of someones finger point.

The finger point, just my metaphor for whenever someone else reads my work and says things such as, "A guy wouldn't say something that," or, "Not a very sexy name for a hero," and my personal favorite, "A horse would never act like that." Hasn't anyone seen Mr. Ed? Just kidding, but still...

Let's get something straight, shall we? I write fiction, my loose interpretation of make-believe. In the worlds I create, yeah, a guy would "say something like that," heroes won't have "sexy" names, and horses get to act any way that I want them to. I'm writing to entertain, as well as provide an escape from reality.

Last week author Erica Hayes made a guest appearance at Magical Musings. Here's something she said that resonated with me, "The more like real life, the more boring the book." I screamed at the monitor, "Amen, sister!" because she validated what I always felt, but through the opinions of others, I began to suppress.

And here's something else. The things perceived as un-real by the "finger-pointers" I've experienced in real life. What can I say? My past is filled with weirdness. And I take license to embellish on reality as a fiction writer, because I CAN.

As writers, shouldn't we pay attention to the unreal things that happen in real time? I do. The unexpected things people have said or done stay with me, almost like they're tattooed to my brain. Yet, comments from the "finger-pointers" stay with me while I write, as if they know my characters better than me.

And that's the point. No one knows my characters or my story better. The situations I come up with, crazy as they are, come from weird experiences in my life. My past is sprinkled with exceptions to the rules, which have fed my imagination. I refuse to "get real."

So the next time I sit down with the Epic (my metaphor/pet name for WIP, not to be confused with War and Peace), I'm going to picture Erica Hayes pointing her finger at me and saying, "The more like real life, the more boring the book." And at least, for me, the writing experience will be absent Ugly Inner Critic.

Anyone else utilize weird and unexpected experiences from their past in their present writings?

Disclaimer: This blog piece isn't a disclaimer on my writing, or an attempt at self-righteousness. ;)

Celebrate the First Amendment!

How many know their First Amendment rights? As a reader and writer, I was served a reminder of its importance by following this link: Banned Books Week September 26 - October 3, 2009.

Just a Phase?

Note: I posted this piece yesterday, and today I woke up with an entirely new perspective on the beast, which proves that publicly sharing angst divides problems to the point where they're no problem at all. Thanks, Universe, for so many wonderful, helpful and compassionate friends. (You all know who you are...)

When to decide it's really over? Lately, through the musings of other authors, different components revealed the dark under-belly of writing: Publishing. Some publishers dropped print lines without informing its authors; agents not performing to full capacity; the chronic debate of what publishers want/expect. It's as if the publishing industry is a ruthless lot of cutthroats - the Debbie Downers of entertainment. And then there's validity. Some published writers objecting to the non-published writers' thoughts and opinions. "Hah!" some will say. "I'm published, you're not. Take your opinion and shove it!"

Well, okay then. Maybe I will.

I long for those naive days when I penned the first Epic. Day and night I wrote, so in love with my story. It was like a ridiculous crush on the cute boy who finally realizes you exist. I could not get enough of it or the two following Epics. For sure, I felt, I'd see publication. My Epics were masterpieces (in my mind).

Now I'm not feeling that love - not for the writing and clearly not for the publication road. For me it's a case of "too much knowledge is a bad thing" scenario. How happier I was in not knowing the forensics of writing and publication. My personal La-La Land. Just me and my pen.

Did I mention that the joy of reading has dissipated, too? Used to be I could swallow a book in its entirety within a day or two. Now I find myself in the thralls of guilt if I do that, thinking that I should be writing, not reading. Not to mention, reading is now an unconscious editing session...as if I know that much about writing. Hah!

Where does it all lead? Is it a matter of joy vs. getting-the-job-done? My present feeling for writing and the lack thereof reminds me of my reasons for self-retirement. I left the job market because getting up in the morning was more painful than a slow bikini wax. Necessary, yet excruciating. My profession lacked self-fulfillment. I did not quit the normal work force in order to be a full-time writer, however. Writing did not come into play until almost a year later. Just something I decided to undertake, the voices in my head wanting a more tangible venue, thus, the Epics to follow.

That's not fun anymore. Learned too much. When thinking of writing for publication my thoughts waver to a more hermit way of life. The "Big Dance" is far out of reach, its preparation daunting. My heart aches for the times of blissful writing that entertains me.

Lately, the other writers don't seem as if they're having fun either. Was it always like that, back before I focused on publication road?

Perhaps it's my age getting in the way. I feel life shortening. That said, I want to enjoy more, angst less. Writing for publication just ain't doing it for me in that regard.

Is this blog my swan song? I'm not sure. Certainty comes in small bites these days. I drown in waves of doubt while longing for simple joy. "Take time off," some will say, but when I return the same dark underbelly awaits. "She's a quitter!" others might think. "Not a real writer in the first place." And there's the rub. Define what a real writer is, and maybe I can see things differently.

For now I sit on this fence, pondering which side appears greener.

Confessions of a Slacker

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been over eight (count 'em - EIGHT) weeks since I've last written...

But I'm not going down on my knees for forgiveness. I've got my reasons for being absent from the scriptorium, and even if that's a loser's excuse, so be it. I'm only human. Life happens. Guilt is for the insanely uptight perfectionists of the world. Let them take up room in that small, dimly lit confessional. I'm standing right out in broad daylight to say that I haven't written one stinking word in my Epic In Progress and I'm feelin' alright.

Life happens. We can't always carve out space for commitment to the pen and paper. Except for authors whose daily bread depends on their craft, the rest of us need to view it as a lesson in priorities. Or, maybe it's just the Universe telling us, "Hey, take a break and suck up some life, will ya?" because for this writer, life is story fodder. Where else to get cool ideas if not out there where life happens? It's sort of like dating; you're not going to meet Mr./Ms. Right by staring at the four walls of your house. You have to go where the action is. Interact with life's breath.

Yet, I'm a bit bothered, personally, that when this slacker cycle of mine ceases, I'll stare at my Epic and say, "Who in the hell are you?" Better yet, I'll probably say, "Who wrote this shit?" And there rests the slacker-dom rub. While life pulled me away from the pages in five thousand other directions, ugly-assed inner critic (U-AIC) did not take a break. This is where fear rears its ugly head as I pick up where last keystroke landed, the breaking moment that could push me back into slacker-dom.

Will it be like riding a bike after falling off, a wheel or two missing? That could make getting back on track extremely difficult. How do I kill ugly-assed critic before taking up pen again? That is my question. I'm giving this serious consideration because next week I plan to embark on a writing blitz (between unpacking boxes and returning to school). What sort of discipline will stop U-AIC from whispering those famous words, "Hey, you suck?"

Answer: The way I'll view my Epic. Not with eyes meant to discredit every word written, but with the eyes of an encouraging editor, one who would say, "It's a little wonky here, but damn, this part here is brilliant!" I feel I have a choice on procedure. Either I embrace the beauty with unconditional love, or I set out on the path of self defeat. It's all about knowing who I really am and not give in to U-AIC's belittling needles of contempt. It's a matter of realizing that the Epic is only going to get better because I'm ready to hit the pavement running. That's my choice.

Am I alone in my chosen slacker-dom? Those willing to admit the same, please share your experience in returning to the pages and how you dealt with the evil U-AIC.

Playing Along

Michelle at Magical Musings is doing this today, and since I'm a sucker for blog links, I'm going to play, too. (In case you aren't a "sucker for blog links," become one by clicking on the "this" link, as well as "Michelle at Magical Musings.")

Here are my answers to the request at "this" link:

• What book(s) made you a better writer? Writing True, The Art and Craft of Creative Nonfiction, by Sondra Perl and Mimi Schwartz.
• What book(s) made you cry? Wow, that's a tough one. Gotta go with Jodi Picoult's My Sister's Keeper and of course, Little Women (need I mention the author?).
  
• What book(s) made you laugh until you were in tears? All of Christopher Moore's books. Every stinkin' one of them.
  
• What book(s) made you feel like you could conquer the world? The Artists' Way by Julia Cameron.
  
• What book(s) have you read three times or more? None. Twice, yes, but three times, never.
  
• What book(s) kept you up all night reading? Back when I could read at night, it was Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin and (blush) Jacqueline Susann's Valley of the Dolls.
  
• What book(s) do you want to read again? Nicole Galland's Fool's Tale.
  
• Any other recommendations? Women of the Silk by Gail Tsukiyama.
  

The Hat Trick, a/k/a, The Threesome

My life has turned into the Rule of Three, having just realized that I have begun to read three books and have three Epics In Progress. All begun, none ended. I'm left with three choices each, but I already know which Epic In Progress I intend to finish. I'll rephrase that. I know which one I'll finish first.

Still, out of the three books I've tried reading, I need to pick which one to sit down and finish. It's just that I'm not that into them.

I'm not divulging titles or authors. Suffice it to say, they're all well published authors, one a prolific writer for decades. They just haven't kept me rapt, and I have to wonder what these authors would think if they knew their books didn't pull me into finishing them. Isn't an important element of novel writing to create a story that rivets me to their pages?

So often we hear the phrase, "Must have a great opening hook." Well, that's all well and good. I don't disagree, but, there better be something after the hook to keep me on the line, and I think that's the problem with all three books. Brilliant openings, but not enough to keep me attached, or anxious to get back to the book. And then I wonder, is it me or is it the dress? Maybe I'm just too preoccupied with other things and just haven't taken the time to assert myself into their pages.

But still...isn't it every writers' goal to create a world that pulls in the reader to the point they never want to leave it? Or maybe it's that after several published books these particular authors just didn't care. Is it possible I'm reading their "dog" editions? I've heard that many authors put out a "dog" every so often. Could it be I wandered into the dog pound without realizing it?

I digress...

Here I sit with three unfinished books, a parallel to my three unfinished Epics. The difference: My Epics will keep the reader right where I want them (she says with an evil cackle). And my Epics are unfinished because, well, just because, that's all. No disclaimers. They just aren't finished yet, and I'm not dead yet, so, they'll get done before then. I do plan on being a published author before I meet my friend, Reaper. And when I'm on that publishing roll I intend on keeping away from the dog pound. You know what they say, when you lay down with dogs, you wake up with a bitch.

But it is a bit odd that I have this threesome going...

Anyone else out there feeling the eerie parallels lately?

Reinvention: The Other Side of Me

Tennessee Williams' name was formerly Thomas Lanier Williams; he dropped the first and middle names, adopting the name of a state where he didn't live (he originated in Mississippi, which would have sounded weird). Thereafter his art soared to a new level, or as Gore Vidal stated in a new introduction of The Judgment of Paris, "An entirely new and splendid writer had spun his way out of what had originally been a moth's chrysalis."

Vidal himself did the coccoon mambo, further stating in the introduction, "My first novels were written in what I called 'the national manner'; as flat literal naturalistic style. Then I came to write this book (The Judgement of Paris)."

In shedding his old style, his career spanned decades, still writing to this day.

As I read the intro to Judgment I saw myself there, my style a blend of what I thought worked and what I'd learned from others. My days of direction and focus slowly diluted to ones of aimless meanderings.

Recently by choice I quit writing, knowing that I was going around in circles, which always leads to the same conclusion. My gut said it was time to quit; my heart said, "But you'll be back." After letting life have its way with me the past month and a half, which included suffering the loss of my dog, dealing with a new home and the stress of selling the old one, I felt the cocoon fold around me.

While in chrysalis I found a new direction - grew new wings. But rather than leap into the air blindly, I'll slowly unfold and let the breeze take me through what's to be. And although I'm a few weeks out from sitting down and actually diving back into my Epic In Progress, I'll do so with a clean slate and strong wings - no crumbs for the hungry inner critic to savor.

I have my support systems in place; they know who they are and never left my side throughout (special thanks to Edie, Erica O, LaDonna, Marcia & Nancy) - wonderful writers who've supported me through my journey to limbo and back. I'm fortunate to know this special group of talent.

No regrets - that's my life and there's nothing I'd change.

P.S. I'M BACK!