Tag Archives: novel writing

It’s not fun until someone loses an eye.

I grossed myself out today during writing. I don’t know if it’s because the AC is broken and it’s 90 degrees up here and the humidity is through the roof, but I apparently needed to outdo myself in fiction. It was one of those weird moments where I’d planned for the scene to go one way and it took a sharp, brutal detour in a direction I hadn’t anticipated. Like the title says, someone literally loses an eye in the process. Of his own volition.

I can get away with a bit that I normally couldn’t in Dev’s narrative, because he’s on this Dante-esque journey. I’ve got to hit some of those high notes. But I realize whenever I talk about these chapters (which together work almost like a novella in the middle of the novel) I sound a bit daft.

Anyway, I wanted to start recapping my writing progress with a little more panache, so I’m trying a new format.

Two Things I Loved: I finally got to write another Dev chapter, and his character arc is coming to a close. The appearance of Cai in human form (she/he’s a god/goddess) was pretty unexpected, and I linked the mythology of Ardesia up with the mythology of the rest of the realm pretty well.

Two Things I Loathed: The description of the beast Dev fights in this chapter got under my skin a bit, but I’ll redo it later. It’s called draft zero for a reason. Also, still not 100% convinced of Dev’s devotion to Marna… which I’m realizing is okay, in the grand scheme of things, but may need to become more apparent to readers. Or something. This ain’t no romance, but I can’t be cruel about it.

Best* Quote of the Day:

It was an easy place to get lost, an easy place to want to get lost. The trees had a cadence of their own, a whispering and seductive rhythm.

“So,” the knight said, “listen. Listen to the trees, and you will see where this poisonous beast is, this creature who is slowly killing my realm and claiming it for Her.”

“Her? Another goddess, then? I’m not sure I want to meet another. The last one I fell in with tried to eat me.”

*see? I spared you from the eye scene. Really, really you should thank me.

Worst* Quote of the Day:

This beast—this creature you want me to find,” Dev said. “It could kill me.”

“It could. But you were well on your way to killing yourself when you came to me… I am not asking much more than to risk what you were prepared to throw away.”

*worst because Cai, the god/goddess knight here, sounds a bit like Gandalf.  Or something. I hate when I lapse into Tolkien. And for some reason, whenever deities start talking in what I write, they go all Shakespearean.

Thoughts of the Day: Been thinking a lot about the concept of passion in writing. Drafted a post on it, even. Passion is the single driving factor in what I do; I lost it for a while, but it came back. :)

Also, came around to the realization that this novel is certainly not steampunk. I mean, it’s got steampunk elements… but the more I write the more I realize this is Gothic fantasy, really. As if the squids weren’t a dead giveaway.

Around the Bend: Squid extraction from our heroine’s husband, slightly admirable villain reveal, wind-up to the big-time boss fight with the Mother Squid. Also, this whole draft is going to be significantly shorter than I planned; I’ll be surprised if I crest 90K. Which actually makes my job easier, as that has never happened before. I’m always hacking away at a draft, rather than enhancing it.

Onward, squidlings.

Birthday goals, and halfway there.

The girl is a geek. Sometime in 88-89 or so. Suitably embarrassing. What the heck is up with those flowers, really? And I can't believe people are purposefully wearing glasses like these today. It was a form of torture back then.

No, this has nothing to do with football. (Or, soccer.)

Just a quick one before the D&D game starts. My birthday is tomorrow, and I wanted to play D&D with our amazing group. However, I also wanted to achieve a personal birthday goal; I wanted to hit 55,000 in the WIP which marks the exact halfway point in the novel. I had until tomorrow to do this but finished today.

Personal goals are important. It’s been hard for me this year, as I usually try to mimic the output of Important Published Writers. (I was reading a post of mine from last year when I wrote 35K in ten days at one point). I used to force myself to write 3K a day. But issues have meant that my output is slower. I can’t keep up as I used to. But still, this is not shabby. I started the book in March and it’s only June. My plan is to finish by September. I can do this. I have to do this, however it goes.

Onward to my last year as a twenty-something, then. Amusingly enough, I once had a silly notion to give up writing if I didn’t get published in novel form by 30, which of course is ridiculous. But when you’re writing novels at 21, that feels a long way off. These days I feel like I’m just getting started. I mean, seriously. How could I stop writing novels? Ah, the innocence of youth.

So, a moment’s pride if you will as I happily display the wee little meter:

The self-conscious fantasy epic.

AnneauUniqueThis morning I read a piece in the Guardian called When the Lord of the Rings doesn’t cut it: Confessions of a fantasy junkie, and found it rather amusing. In particular this bit (which makes us all sound a bit like Gollum, I think):

I understand the pain of the addict. At the turn of a page, weeks of total immersion in a fantasy world come to an end and mundane reality is waiting. Fantasy is epic because that is how we like it. But like any narcotic substance, fantasy operates on the law of diminishing returns. Once you’ve see a few dozen dragons, you’ve seen them all. The fantasy fan is on an eternal quest to recapture that first taste of magic. Eventually, the doorstoppers don’t cut it anymore. And then we are forced to go underground.

I’ve written on this topic a few times, and it certainly hit home for me. As someone weaned on Tolkien and Lewis, I know the feeling well. I remember trying to hide my undying love for Middle-Earth, and failing miserably when my book report gushing to the world was read aloud in class by my teacher. My school was small enough at the time that there weren’t any D&D groups to join, and the only person I know who also read fantasy read Terry Brooks. And I did not.

Anyway, it didn’t get easier or better for me as I got older. I’m now convinced that my time in both undergraduate and graduate school studying Middle English was only in an effort to study the roots of fantasy literature. It was cheating a little, because all that chivalric literature really isn’t any different than fantasy, save in language and occasional subject. (I should argue that plenty of medieval stuff is even more revolutionary than today’s contemporary fantasy–read Silence for a cross-dressing heroine, for example!) I found quite a few friends in graduate school, however, who loved fantasy, and that was certainly a help.

But my roundabout point is, in spite of coming to grips with liking to read fantasy epic, it’s taken even longer for me to accept writing it. Why? Because it’s a genre that breeds self-consciousness. It’s practically made of cliche and stereotype. Saying you write fantasy literature to some people is no different than admitting a penchant for furries, or a LARPer. I know, I’ve gotten the looks before. Eyebrows up, mouth agape–they struggle for things to say, but the fact is, even if the book was on the Bestseller list, they’d likely never read it. And if they did, it’d probably make them laugh hysterically.

Anyway, currently I am writing a fantasy epic. True fantasy. No steampunk, no time-travel, no squids. And I find that I’m incredibly self-conscious about it some days, and completely revel in it on other days. I have moments where I ask myself, “Is this too fantasy epic?” and others when I think I’m really on to something different. Truly, it must strike a balance to be good, and I’ve never had such a set of demons on my shoulder arguing it out over a book. I love the genre to bits, and I am indeed still reaching to capture that magic–but doing it with my own wand, as it were, is another spell all together.

I wrote a sequel to The Lord of the Rings when I was fourteen. It was about Merry and Pippin meeting up together in old age and making a trip across Middle Earth to Gondor, and their final days there with Aragorn. I wish I had a bit to share, because it is quite amusing. Regardless, I have always expressed my love in writing. I scarcely know how else to do it. I even re-wrote half of The Stand once…  And while I am a bit self-conscious about this particular endeavor (and… well, thankfully not plagiarising) it’s still done with joy. Part of me is very much that same fourteen year old with the ugly sweater and wire-rimmed glasses hunkering down at my Aptiva and composing everything in Footlight.

And thankfully, at long last, I don’t care who knows. I only hope I can do it well enough.

Glut, glut, glut.

I am trying to be candid here.

I have too many words.

Not counting finished drafts, I have somewhere around 230K of unfinished business. This is either work in process (currently I am writing two separate books) or words that need to be edited. This morning I thought I’d total it up, for reasons of amusement. But now? Looking at it I’ve got to wonder what the hell it is I’m getting at.

This started when I got frustrated editing a first draft. Then I decided to do something else; which lead to something else… which means, ah, what the hell?

Self: Stop this grumblefest. You need to look on the bright side.

Glutty McGlutterson: Wha? Like, the fact that I’m writing and that’s something and I should keep my chin up, buster, and dance with rainbows and dragons and flying horses?

Self: Um, no, not exactly. Since when have I ever called you buster?

McGlut: Ugh, you always do this.

Self: Do what? Force you to accentuate the positive?

McGlut: I’m going to start calling you Pollyanna.

Self: Seriously. Remember that 10,000 hours thing? You’re being a writer. Not an editor. So you’re writing.

McGlut: I can scarcely think where to go.

Self: You were on a roll.

McGlut: *sigh* That peksy past-tense.

Self: Oh, grow up! Just sit your ass down and write. Stop complaining. You are a professional.

McGlut: A professional word-vomiter.

Self: Better than the other way.

McGlut: … true.

Self: Consider the current project. Marketable, single person narrative… just focus on that. The rest will come. Or it won’t. And you’ll drown to death in words.

McGlut: *glub, glub, glub*

What future Natania told past Natania.

Photo by Pierre J.

Photo by Pierre J.

No, I can’t really go back in time (if I could, you’d be reading this on a telegraph!). But if I could, there’s a few things I’d tell myself about writing, publication, and and the business of print.

Never underestimate the kindness and generosity of other writers. Most of the progress I’ve made this last year has been because of the friendships I’ve made with other SF/F writers. First it was through WordPress, then it was through Twitter. Not only have other writers helped me learn the ropes and what to expect, but they’ve been a constant source of inspiration and support during the writing, editing, and shopping process.

Never underestimate the selfishness and self-centeredness of other writers. While, thankfully, not as common as the nice folks, there are some astonishingly vain writers out there who are writing for one reason: themselves. They feed off of praise and adulation, and love to talk about themselves and their work but rarely help other people. Steer clear of these folks, no matter what honeyed promises they give you.

Listen to agents. It’s hard advice, at first. It will likely burst your happy little bubble, and will be difficult to hear. At first you’ll be overwhelmed by the number of queries each and every agent gets, then by the sheer fail of it all. But then you’ll realize how important it is that you listen to their advice because, unlike ten years ago, now with Twitter and Facebook and the blogsplosion, you have the opportunity to be in the know. The secrets are out, for the most part. But, conversely, you have no excuse for being ignorant! So in some ways, the competition is even more intense. Keep on your toes.

The Internet is not magic. Just because you blog, podcast, write, critique, and are involved in active Twitter chats doesn’t mean you’ll find success. It can help, of course, but it still takes persistence and work. There are no magic publication fairies that will scoop up your manuscript and whisk it off to Tor. That said, you have to act as your own emissary–so be on good behavior, and try not to be a dick.

Rejection isn’t personal. It’s biased, yes, but not personal. It’s also part of the game. Learning to wear rejection as a badge of honor is a good idea, but it’s no easy task. You can think you’re tough, but life is weird. Chances are you’ll get a major rejection on a day that was crap already, and no matter how much you try to say it doesn’t bother you, it will. It’s natural. It’s something you hoped for, and nothing sucks so much as the destruction of hope (even if it’s just temporary). However, you’re only allowed to let it bother you for a day, an hour, a small increment of time, and then move on. If you can’t move on, frankly, you’re just not cut out for this business.

Make your own victories. It’s not about what you’re writing compared to everyone else. It’s not even about your word count. It’s about telling your story and telling it right. It’s about finding your own voice. Make daily goals, and stick to them. As long as you keep championing on, the sting of rejection won’t be so harsh.

Never take your readers for granted. Their input is some of the most meaningful and helpful you’ll ever get. There is nothing so amazing as sharing something with a reader and having them enjoy it, having the story mean something to them, too. Listen to everything they say… their comments can be more insightful than the most seasoned critic.

Grow a pair. You’ll find, as you continue to write, and move beyond that first novel, that there are things you should have done, could have done, and were afraid to do. Be fearless. Go out on a limb. Be the voice you want to hear. Maybe you can’t slay dragons in real life, but you can do anything between the lines. Trust your imagination, listen to your characters, and be brave enough to heed what you hear.

Read, read, read. Never go a day without reading something. Read books that rock, books that suck. Read how-to books and mystery novels and gardening books. Read cooking books and encyclopedias. Learn from the craft, never stop the stream of information. It is what you love, and if you stray from that path, you’ll get lost. Trust me, I know.

Novelfail: Facing rejection with grace (or learning to)

I’ve had short stories rejected before, and I like to think I’m pretty good at dealing with it. At least, it’s enough to piss me off a while, but not enough to throw me into the pit and give up writing. The story selection process is extremely subjective, and I can deal with that. I just keep writing.

However, yesterday, on my way to take my sister to her chemotherapy treatment, I got my first novel rejection letter. This is another bird altogether, and due to the timing of the situation–dealing with jetlag and the issues my sister is facing–I was a little bent out of shape for a few hours.

My biggest complaint might seem strange, but I really wish it had been a form rejection. Just a simple “this isn’t for us, thanks for your submission”. As it was, the rejection letter praised my “well-written” work, and noted that the characters were engaging. Sure, that’s nice. But it also let me know the exact reason for the rejection.

And the reason? It’s a small detail that has very little bearing on the rest of the plot. It’s not even something I had to keep, just something I thought was neat.  I read over the letter again and again, and just couldn’t get my head around it. If they’d read a few more chapters, it would have been explained. It was supposed to be a point of intrigue! (But… instead was a point of FAIL)

Because of the conversational tone of the rejection letter, I was tempted to write back and argue my case. I mean, they even gave me suggestions to change that detail! It took me about thirty seconds to realize that that was a very, very stupid idea. In fact, it’s a kiss of death. You never write back after a rejection! NEVER. Especially as an unagented newbie… I need to be on absolute best behavior.

What’s hard is that I feel really, really ineffectual. And I hate feeling that way! I want to fight for my novel, to give it a chance, to argue my point. I joke that I’m cowardly, but I’m fighting a very knightly feeling to rise up and protect! Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be mean about it–I understand their hangup in that it seems a little odd. I just want to show them what I did with it, as they didn’t read past the first three chapters.

But I can’t. I have to accept their decision, and move on, hoping that someone else will pick up the novel when I submit it again.

Rejection is part of the game, though. I’m continuing to think about it, and insist that this is all for the better, but can’t shake the crappy feeling. I guess that’s human. Still, I’m not flagging; I literally got the letter and wrote about 100 words in my WIP just because I sort of had to. Which is a victory in and of itself. The hardest thing about rejection is the feeling it gives you, how it makes you question what you love doing. But writing, for me, isn’t just about loving it, or sharing it. It’s about making a living, about improving.

And the only way to win against rejection is to get better at what you do.

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” – Samuel Beckett

A note on giving up.

It’s okay. Really it is. Set it aside, take a walk. Go somewhere new; get a cup of coffee. Do some yoga, or scream a little. Writing can be such a pain in the ass, you deserve to take give up for a little while. Or a month. Or a year. Or a few years.

Writing, if anything, is a roller-coaster. It’s moments of ebullient joy cut short by self-doubt and skepticism. It’s dark and light, brilliance and idiocy, utter bliss and deepest despair. And, it seems, such contradictions don’t go away, not with success or fame or age or time. Writers both in the glow of youth and the pallor of age experience the stress of creation, few without the struggle.

Writing. Is. Work. It can be enjoyable work, and even rewarding work. But success and accomplishment only come at the expense of time. If you don’t make time, if you can’t sacrifice lots of crap you thought you had to live with, you’re not going to manage. You just aren’t.

I don’t mean this to be melancholy or discouraging. But sometimes you do just have to walk away. Some projects aren’t going to work, no matter what you do; sometimes the timing is wrong. You can push through, but will you be happy? It doesn’t matter how much time you’ve put into it, if working on it is absolute suffering, and suffering without resolve or resolution, then you need to move on.

See, writers, we’re not the heroes of our stories. We can’t go on against all odds.We don’t have magic swords, or special powers. We’re just people, and occasionally cutting your losses and getting the hell on with your life (and other writing) is necessary.

But it’s not the end of the road; not for you, not even necessarily for your work. The reason I’m going on about this is that I’ve recently picked up a project that I started ten years ago. It was the first book I ever wrote from beginning to end, and also the first book I edited in a complete rewrite. And a month ago, if you had asked me about it, I would have laughed. I often referred to the book as something dead…

Why had I put the book away? For a few reasons. When I was writing it originally, I was growing too fast as a writer. By the time I finished the book, the first half was like someone else had written it. Editing tired me out. Parts of the book never melded, felt too juvenile, uncreative. Though it’s the fantasy genre, every time I read a book that had similar elements, I’d get down on myself. I let it discourage me instead of challenge me.

Most importantly there was a central problem I couldn’t resolve and, really, it was because I was not yet brave enough to do something within the narrative. It was not a choice I anticipated earlier, but something that I suddenly understood just a week or so ago.

In the last few days I’ve been hammering out the first chapter (again… my husband chuckled when I told him I was working on it again, and he said: “What, isn’t this the fourth rewrite?” – um, more like sixth. Or seventh? I have lots of drafts). And you know what? Now is the time. According to my defunct LiveJournal, sometime around late 2005 or early 2006 I stopped working on Peter of Windbourne. And you know what happened?

I stopped writing altogether.

Don’t. Let. This. Happen.

Once I got my brain back together (I did have a pregnancy in the middle of that… so, I have somewhat of an excuse) I never went back to PoW. I wrote new things. Three books, which hey, I’m not complaining about. I only regret the period of about a year where nothing happened (mostly the void of 2007). 2008 was the best writing year of my life. Even better than ’95, when I tried to rewrite the entirety of The Stand.

My meandering point? Just because you give up, doesn’t mean you can’t go back later. In fact, sometimes, it’s a much better idea. Oh, I’m not celebrating yet. I’m rewriting the whole book again (again?! part of my brain is currently laughing maniacally). A blind rewrite. With just my memories of the book, and the characters that I’ve spent so much time with. But it’s better. I can tell, already, that it’s better.

Thankfully, I gave up for a while because I’m ready for the challenge now.

Dreams and revelations.

I have written lots of stuff over the years, but my problem is always finalization, finishing. The first finished novel I ever wrote is a prequel, of sorts, to The Aldersgate, occurring in the same world but some 400 years before. It’s called Peter of Windbourne, and it has been sitting in stasis for… oh, three years or so.

First novels are a tricky business. Writing them is like having your first crush; it’s a hectic, messy, emotional process, and the outcome isn’t necessarily something you hold onto for the rest of your life. Peter isn’t that bad, but it’s had a major, central problem that has taken me a very long time to figure out. In fact, I didn’t think I would figure it out. I started to assume, after a few years, that the book itself would just… lie in state.

Funny thing happened last night, though. I dreamed I was in the book. Namely, that I was Peter, the protagonist. It was a very vivid, intricate, and emotional dream. I specifically recall holding a sword at one point and being very… well, psyched about it. Who wouldn’t be?

With the dream on my mind this morning, I was making coffee when a rather huge revelation about Peter’s character hit me. Something I have missed since he appeared to me ten years ago. Something huge and meaningful and exciting. It’s not a panacea for the issues with the book, but it’s a springboard, and more importantly, it’s the component that changes the story from a rather cut-and-dry sword and sorcery epic fantasy to something far from ordinary…

Crap. Now to find the time to do this!

Six of these, half a dozen of the other – a character conundrum

I am making every effort to write and/or edit every single day, whether it’s a work in progress or something past the first draft. It’s part of the whole, “I’m going to act like this is a professional gig” approach I’ve been instating over the last few months (to surprising success, I should add).

However, I’m having a really hard time shaking the last batch of characters for any new set. It’s almost amusing, but since it’s coming in the way of a current editing project I’m trying to do (preparing Queen of None beyond the first draft) it’s bordering on plain irritating.

It’s quite literally a fact of characters from one book not liking the characters in another. Does this sound bat-turd crazy? Yeah, I think it does. But it’s like I’m wearing a pair of tinted glasses from the last editing project, and can’t shed them as I shift gears toward another. Everything I’m reading feels awful, and I can almost hear the former character criticizing the latter character.

I don’t typically have problems like this, but then again I’ve never finished three books in the course of five months. I’ve never had this many characters running around my brain, randomly firing my synapses. Maybe that’s the problem. It’s likely I’ve hit a kind of character critical mass, and I’m unable to detangle them from one another. Or maybe it’s stress. Or maybe I’m going a little batty. It’s all quite possible.

While part of me says “just start something new entirely” the other part says, “just take a friggin’ break.” While taking a break seems like the rational thing to do, omigod–what else do I do if not write!?

Anyone have similar experiences? Suggestions?

Writing to reach you

I’ve been in a writing zone lately. Every day, writing. In the car, in the house, upstairs and downstairs. It doesn’t seem to matter. As I’ve mentioned over at the Aldersgate Cycle blog, I’ve been so busy that blog writing isn’t really a possibility (except um, obviously right now).

I realized I’ve clocked about 70K in the last month and three days. Which is impressive.

But what really got me is that I’ve written 35K in the last ten days.

Though I’m typically very, um, unpredictable when it comes to writing, I have little in the way of explanation for this one. To my knowledge no one has spiked my drinks, and I’ve taken no performance enhancing drugs (unless you count red wine, coffee, and ibuprofen). Usually I’ll write for about a week, and stop, then not write for a month. Unless I have NaNoWriMo or something. But in the space of a month I doubled my WriMo work, and not even really that consciously.

And honestly, I’ve felt kind of crappy lately. My sister is fighting Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, our finances are shaky at best, we’re moving again, and I’ve got the third cold this year. It’s also February, which is, contrary to popular belief and T.S. Eliot, the cruelest month. Dar Williams had it right. Maybe this is escape. Maybe it’s determination. Maybe it’s me trying to make real to a promise I made myself, that I wouldn’t just be a writer in theory, but a writer in practice–that writing would become more than my hobby, it would become my vocation. My calling.

Anyway, this is not a gloating post; I am the first to admit that quantity does not equal quality. There’s much work to be done, but at the moment I’m feeling a little bit accomplished. And hell, I could really use that right about now.