I hate It. It does bad things to a writer. It allows, no compels, you to go back and reread what you wrote the day before--just to get you up to speed--then It slaps you with an unwanted crit. "By the way," It says, "you're a crappy writer." Oh no! I can fix it. Really. Just hold on a sec.
Let's be clear: It, the internal editor, is not your friend when you're deep into the First Crappy Draft. FCD for short. When It takes a swipe at my previous day's work, I can't help myself; I start deleting words, rewriting sentences, rearranging everything not nailed down, and well, today's work ends up being a rushed two paragraphs that on the scale of 1 to 10 rates a -2. Tomorrow, It will be beside herself with cruel glee. She's just trying to be helpful, ya know.
Get thee behind me, It!
I've got the cage. I've got the muzzle. I've got the tranquilizer. Unfortunately, some days, I forget to use them.
It, for all her annoying intrusions, has her usefulness. Later, when I'm done with the FCD, I can release the ruthless It to gnaw her way through the adjectives, adverbs, ragged plot and inconsistent characterizations. And I, the author, can take a break...for a few hours. It likes prompt revisions.
It and I have this real love/hate thing going. Today, we're in hate.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
Dreams
I read where Stephenie Meyer said her teenage vampire story Twilight originated in a dream. I wish my dreams would download something more interesting than the typical school-anxiety dreams my subconscious dumps out. It's been a while since I had to get to class or had a test to take, but I still have dreams where I realize I've come to the end of the semester and I have a final in a class I had no idea I was taking or one I hadn't bothered to attend. The classrooms are always dark, murky and the students--the ones who actually went to class--are all hunched over their desks acing the test I'm doomed to fail.
Since I tend to dream in vivid symbolism, I've taught myself to look for the hidden meanings. How accurate those interpretations are is up for grabs, but hey, it's my dream and my interpretation.
Last night I had one of those school horror dreams. I added an element I usually have in other anxiety dreams: not being able to dial a phone number. Yeah, not quite as scary as having Cujo snarling at your heels, but it's annoying when my fingers take on a life of their own and punch little keypads not included in the phone number.
In last night's episode, I was in college and it was not the University of South Carolina, the only university I've ever attended. And graduated, I might add. I always wonder when I read in announcements that someone 'attended' the University of So and So if that means they went a couple of semesters then dropped out. Shouldn't it say they graduated from the University of Diploma? But I digress.
Anyway, I had a roommate, a woman I've never seen before in my life. I didn't even know her name. She told me where our dorm room was located, but I had no idea where the building was and couldn't find it. We also had a class together and naturally, I had no idea what was going on there either. The bulk of the dream was about doing a project that I, of course, was clueless about, but I was trying. I needed to call her and when I got the student directory, all the phone numbers began with a different prefix, unlike the 777 I was used to back in the day at Carolina. Confused the heck out of me.
Finally, I found hers, which must have been quite a chore since I didn't know her name, and tried to punch the numbers into my cellphone. If the number was 5, I punched 3. Over and over, I mis-dialed the dang number. By the time I woke up, I was so frustrated, I flung the covers off and barely avoided dumping a sleeping cat onto a lounging dog on the floor. They quickly forgave me by yowling and howling for immediate attention to their bowls.
What does it mean when you can't find your dorm, can't dial a number, can't remember your roommate's name or can't comprehend your assignment? I'm one very confused person? Sounds good to me.
On a deeper level, I think I'm having anxiety over characters, plots and the fear I don't know what I'm doing. Alas, 'tis partially true. I am a novice novel writer, not a newbie to writing, but I am an unpublished one. Well, except for a couple of poems. Big frickin' deal.
The dream is already fading. When I first woke, I had a better recall of the exact events in my dream and I thought it was pretty clear I was subconsciously obsessing about my writing. Now that the details are fading, I retain less evidence. You'll have to take my word for it.
I love writing. I'd do it even if I'm never published, which is a distinct possibility. It is for every aspiring author. We all can see our names on jacket covers, but the stuff between the covers can be a major problem. Sure, we have a story. Unfortunately, that's not good enough. We might love it, but that's not enough either. Writing is a craft as surely as building handmade heirloom chairs. It takes practice, study, more study, research, more research, and a lot of patience with 'self, the impatient storyteller' as we learn to navigate plot, character, voice, tone, pacing, themes, and any other little nuances that make a story good to someone besides your best friend.
I take comfort in knowing great writers agonize over their stories, worry their stories and they aren't good enough. Not that I have any illusions of greatness--just a daydream of being good--but if the 'greats' worry, then maybe a little anxiety is good. Maybe it keeps us reaching for a phrase that's a little better, then a lot better. Maybe it keeps us focused. Maybe it pushes us higher and higher and we become clearer and clearer. Our plots get tighter. Maybe anxiety just gives us nightmares. I should ask Stephen King. His nightmares fill the space between the covers with glorious stories. Maybe I'm hanging out with a dud Sandman. I need to borrow his and Stephenie Meyer's.
In the meantime, I'll keep dreaming.
Since I tend to dream in vivid symbolism, I've taught myself to look for the hidden meanings. How accurate those interpretations are is up for grabs, but hey, it's my dream and my interpretation.
Last night I had one of those school horror dreams. I added an element I usually have in other anxiety dreams: not being able to dial a phone number. Yeah, not quite as scary as having Cujo snarling at your heels, but it's annoying when my fingers take on a life of their own and punch little keypads not included in the phone number.
In last night's episode, I was in college and it was not the University of South Carolina, the only university I've ever attended. And graduated, I might add. I always wonder when I read in announcements that someone 'attended' the University of So and So if that means they went a couple of semesters then dropped out. Shouldn't it say they graduated from the University of Diploma? But I digress.
Anyway, I had a roommate, a woman I've never seen before in my life. I didn't even know her name. She told me where our dorm room was located, but I had no idea where the building was and couldn't find it. We also had a class together and naturally, I had no idea what was going on there either. The bulk of the dream was about doing a project that I, of course, was clueless about, but I was trying. I needed to call her and when I got the student directory, all the phone numbers began with a different prefix, unlike the 777 I was used to back in the day at Carolina. Confused the heck out of me.
Finally, I found hers, which must have been quite a chore since I didn't know her name, and tried to punch the numbers into my cellphone. If the number was 5, I punched 3. Over and over, I mis-dialed the dang number. By the time I woke up, I was so frustrated, I flung the covers off and barely avoided dumping a sleeping cat onto a lounging dog on the floor. They quickly forgave me by yowling and howling for immediate attention to their bowls.
What does it mean when you can't find your dorm, can't dial a number, can't remember your roommate's name or can't comprehend your assignment? I'm one very confused person? Sounds good to me.
On a deeper level, I think I'm having anxiety over characters, plots and the fear I don't know what I'm doing. Alas, 'tis partially true. I am a novice novel writer, not a newbie to writing, but I am an unpublished one. Well, except for a couple of poems. Big frickin' deal.
The dream is already fading. When I first woke, I had a better recall of the exact events in my dream and I thought it was pretty clear I was subconsciously obsessing about my writing. Now that the details are fading, I retain less evidence. You'll have to take my word for it.
I love writing. I'd do it even if I'm never published, which is a distinct possibility. It is for every aspiring author. We all can see our names on jacket covers, but the stuff between the covers can be a major problem. Sure, we have a story. Unfortunately, that's not good enough. We might love it, but that's not enough either. Writing is a craft as surely as building handmade heirloom chairs. It takes practice, study, more study, research, more research, and a lot of patience with 'self, the impatient storyteller' as we learn to navigate plot, character, voice, tone, pacing, themes, and any other little nuances that make a story good to someone besides your best friend.
I take comfort in knowing great writers agonize over their stories, worry their stories and they aren't good enough. Not that I have any illusions of greatness--just a daydream of being good--but if the 'greats' worry, then maybe a little anxiety is good. Maybe it keeps us reaching for a phrase that's a little better, then a lot better. Maybe it keeps us focused. Maybe it pushes us higher and higher and we become clearer and clearer. Our plots get tighter. Maybe anxiety just gives us nightmares. I should ask Stephen King. His nightmares fill the space between the covers with glorious stories. Maybe I'm hanging out with a dud Sandman. I need to borrow his and Stephenie Meyer's.
In the meantime, I'll keep dreaming.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
What's a nice girl doing....
Learning Blogger's ropes. That's what.
So, here I am.
New to Blogger. So far, I like this place.
However, after messing around with gmail in an attempt to remember my password, I seem to have used up all my words for tonight. It's late and I'm nodding off. We'll consider this a test post and try to do better when the neurons are once again firing.
That's the best I can do. Later.
So, here I am.
New to Blogger. So far, I like this place.
However, after messing around with gmail in an attempt to remember my password, I seem to have used up all my words for tonight. It's late and I'm nodding off. We'll consider this a test post and try to do better when the neurons are once again firing.
That's the best I can do. Later.
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