Temperature: a windy but sunny 5/41 degrees
Eating: in a minute
Drinking: Can't. Working. Maybe later? A Guinness to ring in the weekend? Hadn’t had one in ages, then had one on St. Patrick’s, and goodness is was gooood.
Watching: my TBR lists grow at an alarming pace. (The problem? A) I read in more than one language, B) I only have one brain, and C) 24 hours a day to spare.) This isn’t working. I need a year off. A year to go off and read.
Listening: to new music from Dido
Reading: As fast as I can. But it’s an epidemic! A cornucopia of fantastic fiction and non-fiction sprouting all over the planet. Could you please give me some time to catch up? Sit on it for a bit? Postpone publication, maybe? I might not get to you if you don’t, you know, and I know you want to be read. This isn’t working. Not for me, and not in your favor.
Thinking: Why don’t we all take 2020 off to read and reflect, and start 2021 in a new and improved state of mind. No? Why not? Because the world doesn’t stop for anyone? Who said anything about stopping?! Your brain doesn’t stop until it shuts down for good. And we have months to plan this, so what’s the problem?
Feeling: I may have gone overboard with the exclamation marks. Totally exceeded my quota for 2019, actually. Like three posts ago. Sorry about that. Can’t promise it won’t happen again.
Dita Parker
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Friday, March 22, 2019
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
A midsummer night's dream
I dreamed I wrote a rather long and rambling essay on the economy, ecology and equality. Long because of the amounts of cause and effect and problems and solutions I managed to cram into that one piece, rambling because of the myriad associations, the links and bridges I managed to build. Full of pathos, I went from global warming to refugees to immigration, from nationalism to fascism to racism, from global trade to global warming and back to refugees again. My theory of everything.
Too bad I don't remember half of it but I do remember feeling a strange but strong sort of relief getting it all down in writing, as if I hadn't quite known what I thought on the subject before I wrote about it and had now laid down a burden, the anxiety that comes with the feeling you don't understand the world around you, the hows and whys, the implications, the consequences. In my dream I had managed to collect my thoughts, observations and opinions, arrange them in a well-structured manner and lay them out coherently and elegantly. (One can dream, right?)
He built this garden for us, they were called, my nocturnal notes, a slight but quite deliberate misquote of a Lenny Kravitz song, I presume, since I opened with a picture of our garden, a garden I gladly work on but one my husband has had a heavy hand in creating. So he doesn't bring me flowers every day. He built me a garden. I realized this is the longest I've stayed put, and not the least because of the garden that grows around me, a house that's like the tropics in the arctic, the peace and happiness I feel in both.
Who has the right to peace and happiness, or prosperity? On what terms? On whose terms? Who promised life would be easy, fair or happy, a man once asked when the question came up, a man who'd never suffered or struggled, who'd never been and never would be any type of minority, an outcast, disenfranchised, displaced, the underdog. No one had ever denied him, crossed him, belittled him, stomped on him or stood up to him. I understood his question. I just don't think he did. I don't think he gave a second thought to where his wealth came from, to whom or what he owed it to.
Taking a close, critical, honest look at most anything usually makes you focus on the flaws and the problems in something, then promptly sign up for a transcendental meditation class, learn mindfulness, go buy one of those adult coloring books, whatever takes your mind off the fact the world is a pretty fucked up place getting worse by the second, now that you really look at it and think about it, so better not look too closely, better concentrate on things closer to home such as you, yourself and, well, you, Jon Lajoie was right: Fuck Everything. Wait, what?
One of my university professors believed cultures evolved in cycles, all cultures following the same cycle but at a different pace. All clashes between nations, cultures, creeds and even individuals stemmed from our conflicting values and views, our place on the cycle, and our need to impose those values and views, our will, on others. I've seen such forces in action, determinism, relativism and entitlement at its worst. I've seen evidence to the contrary, kindness and compassion and selflessness at its best.
Maybe authors and artists can't change the world but they show us what it's like to live in it, what it feels like to be human, living under the same sun and moon but very different stars.
Too bad I don't remember half of it but I do remember feeling a strange but strong sort of relief getting it all down in writing, as if I hadn't quite known what I thought on the subject before I wrote about it and had now laid down a burden, the anxiety that comes with the feeling you don't understand the world around you, the hows and whys, the implications, the consequences. In my dream I had managed to collect my thoughts, observations and opinions, arrange them in a well-structured manner and lay them out coherently and elegantly. (One can dream, right?)
He built this garden for us, they were called, my nocturnal notes, a slight but quite deliberate misquote of a Lenny Kravitz song, I presume, since I opened with a picture of our garden, a garden I gladly work on but one my husband has had a heavy hand in creating. So he doesn't bring me flowers every day. He built me a garden. I realized this is the longest I've stayed put, and not the least because of the garden that grows around me, a house that's like the tropics in the arctic, the peace and happiness I feel in both.
Who has the right to peace and happiness, or prosperity? On what terms? On whose terms? Who promised life would be easy, fair or happy, a man once asked when the question came up, a man who'd never suffered or struggled, who'd never been and never would be any type of minority, an outcast, disenfranchised, displaced, the underdog. No one had ever denied him, crossed him, belittled him, stomped on him or stood up to him. I understood his question. I just don't think he did. I don't think he gave a second thought to where his wealth came from, to whom or what he owed it to.
Taking a close, critical, honest look at most anything usually makes you focus on the flaws and the problems in something, then promptly sign up for a transcendental meditation class, learn mindfulness, go buy one of those adult coloring books, whatever takes your mind off the fact the world is a pretty fucked up place getting worse by the second, now that you really look at it and think about it, so better not look too closely, better concentrate on things closer to home such as you, yourself and, well, you, Jon Lajoie was right: Fuck Everything. Wait, what?
One of my university professors believed cultures evolved in cycles, all cultures following the same cycle but at a different pace. All clashes between nations, cultures, creeds and even individuals stemmed from our conflicting values and views, our place on the cycle, and our need to impose those values and views, our will, on others. I've seen such forces in action, determinism, relativism and entitlement at its worst. I've seen evidence to the contrary, kindness and compassion and selflessness at its best.
Maybe authors and artists can't change the world but they show us what it's like to live in it, what it feels like to be human, living under the same sun and moon but very different stars.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Now, voyager
Warning: Verbal incontinence ahead.
(Come on, I've been so thrifty with words these past six months surely I'm allowed some now. And I've tried to write a post, several times, these past few weeks but what came out was a heap of all important nothings, and as important a part of convivial civilized interaction as they are, if the world were as civilized as it makes itself out to be, you and me and that guy over there should be able to speak freely without feeling fear, trepidation or threatened. So I thought, why not?)
Where on earth have I been, doing what exactly, leaving all (seven and that drive-by Serbian) of you wondering WTF? What the hell am I thinking?
Let's see.
I'm thinking anything worth doing is worth doing well and that I'm not as masterful a multitasker as I thought I was (imagine my surprise) so now that there's something else I need to do and somewhere else I need to be, I thought that's what I need to do and that's where I need to be then.
I'm also thinking about moving, or Hubby and I are, contemplating relocating quite far from where we are perched on top of the world. Only a thought at this point. Small but with immense potential for growth. Not even close to making a decision but we're considering options, thinking ahead. We told the kids we're playing with the thought and none said no outright, they just started asking questions. Where would we live and what's it like out there? What about school? The language?
They've traveled. They know this isn't all there is to the world. I've lived the life from a younger age than they are now. I know the pros and cons, believe me, and my kids know my history, where I've been and what it meant to me, what it gave me and what it took away. Mind you, it gave more than it took, by a wide margin, but I'll admit there was a time I resented the hell out of my parents for leaving Brazil. (The choice wasn't entirely theirs but I was a navel-gazing preteen who knew, who just knew they were doing it to run and ruin my life.) I got over it. Most of it. I think. Any day now.
But we're talking an absence of 5 to 10 years here. And in five to say nothing of ten years from now the place you now call home will have changed. Sometimes there's no going back. It happens. I grant you it's much easier to keep up with what's going on in any given country than it was in my youth. But there'll be moments when you realize you speak the language and still have no idea what people are talking about.
It's often some trivial mundane thing that betrays you but those prosaic touches reveal you for what you sometimes feel you are: a stranger in a strange land. Am I just faking it? Can they tell the difference? Like a spy hoping not to be made. I've found it's best not to hide those feelings or insecurities. Admit you don't know, don't apologize for all that you do know, alternative ways of thinking and handling matters and viewing the world.
This whole thing...not my idea or initiative. Hubby's. Related to his line of work and oh God don't be one of those stand-by-your-man women hauling ass and playing house so he can have a career and a family. Way ahead of you and the game, sweetie darlings. What I do I can do pretty much anywhere. The tropic, the arctic, sand, snow, home or away, I've got it covered.
Speaking of which, work is going well. Feeling genuinely accomplished and useful and I've found I need that. I need to be of service. Moving would mean another culture to study, another language to learn. Always a plus in my line of work. What is it that I do, again? What I love best, work with words and languages. On most days it's...I wouldn't use the word fun but certainly challenging and rewarding. On some it's a fight against cynicism, I kid you not. What's-the-matter-with-you-For-the-love-of-all-that-is holy-open-your-eyes-Enough-with-the-pettiness-and-provincialism-Let's-get-things-done-already-All-I'm-hearing-is-me-me-me. Days when you think that maybe you'd be better off on some desert island surviving on fish, mangos, avocados and coconut water, away from it all with books and pen and paper because the world is bat-shit crazy and beyond redemption or repair.
But then you remember that your family has other plans and that you'd miss your friends, partnered sex, boozy leisure, audiovisual entertainment and a regular change of scenery and that you really tire yourself out sometimes with your navel-gazing me-me-me so...no...and while you sometimes fantasize about a world of enlightened despotism with yours truly madly deeply in charge so we'd get things done already, it's not in the cards, is it, so now what? Go back to the task at hand and soldier on.
Isn't that precious, you say. It is. Invaluable, I say. Don't lose your head and don't waste your talents. There are people out there willing to pay good money for what you can do. And the writing? I haven't seen the forest from the trees. I don't have to strive to write for a living, I already do. Wonderful stuff, interesting stuff, meaningful stuff, just these past few months. Hiding in plain sight, really. If you knew where to look you'd find me, a woman who looks a lot like the lady in that pic ("What do you mean by a lot? That's not what you look like?" God, no. I don't usually bother with a straightener.), maybe even recognize my voice. If that happens, sweetie darlings, if you think you do, it's our secret and I trust you to keep it.
Every storytelling technique, every trick of the trade has only helped. Nothing's going to waste. And every new thing I've had to study only makes me a better storyteller. Win-win. What about the Romantica I had in the works? I'm still working on them. S l o w l y . I can't leave my characters hanging. I promised them a happy ending and right now they're really pissed. And I know what you're thinking. What's the point? With the pace I write and publish romance, what's the point?
That is the question. That is a very good question. A question every author, every professional, every human being should ask themselves every now and then. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? For me, counterpoint is the point. Counterbalance is the point. I need to write fiction more than this scene needs another book by the Parker girl. Not that I don't care about my readers, never think that, dearest denizens. What I'm trying to say is that writing fiction fulfills a need and grants a pleasure that supersedes other motives. I will always write fiction even if I never publish another book. But the fiction, just the fiction, ain't enough. I've tried so hard and for so long to strike a balance. And then I just...I didn't give up, I gave in. For country and for crowd or bust. That thought somehow takes off all the pressure. Anxiety and frustration lift. I will never be top banana. Doesn't make me a bad writer. Doesn't mean I don't have drive. Doesn't mean I don't have a voice or stories to tell. Will anyone be interested in that voice or those stories... That's another story, one I don't get to dictate on my own.
The rumors of Dita's social death, suicide really, have been right on the money. Sometimes there's no coming back. It happens. I've tried to keep up with what's going on but there'll be moments when I realize I thought I knew where it's at but have no idea what people are talking about. I'd be quite content just writing away, working behind the scenes. I'm painfully aware and constantly reminded of the fact I don't brand and market as aggressively as I should, but the brand and name recognition stuff...it's so messed up. Once upon a time you became a brand when you did something particularly well, when you were a cut above in your field or art or whatever. Nowadays, you have to have a brand, the whole package, laid and thought out before you've made a single move or created a thing and you gotta love the me-me-me.
Yeah, I know, nowadays be nowadays, not ye olden ways, and this is business and you don't sell a product without a USP so you better have one or make way for those who do, but what if you don't feel like a neat package, more like a multiple personality without the disorder? Is that a brand? "This is me then." Is that ever enough? The level of frustration and confusion, a general feeling of where shall we go, what shall we do, has reached new heights among...well, I guess Dita can't speak for anyone except a small segment of erotic romance authors. Established, popular authors seem to be doing okay. The rest... Maybe it's too early to call but some have put their numbers out there asking is it just me or have sales truly declined so drastically? Some are responding no it's not just you, others with thanks, not what I wanted to hear, I'll get my coat, what's the point.
That is the question. What's the point? No promises, no guarantees, a lot of work, sweat, even tears, for what exactly? But who promised or owes us, any author, any professional, anything, ever? Who guaranteed sales or success? Perpetual Pleasure hasn't sold well at all and of course it makes me sad and it makes me wonder and makes me quote Dickinson on occasion. I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? (Not particularly proud of those moments but there you have it.) Is it the price? Sub-genre? An author people don't know? The fact I'm not an aggressive marketer? Did they hate Alex and won't risk another disappointment? No reviews, not enough buzz or word of mouth? So I'm biased but it's not a bad book.
And I know how you feel. You put endless hours into something, do your loving best...but I'm thinking so does everybody else. What are you gonna do? Where shall we go? What shall we do? "Frankly, Dita, the Internet doesn't give a damn." True, that. I honestly don't know. I guess all we can do is ask what's the point, take it from there, and see how far it takes us.
"What do you mean you don't know? You honestly don't know, make room for those who do." Be my guests, please. But half, more than half, like a good two-thirds don't know, even if they say they do. You can wish. You can hope. But you can never know for certain. Not until you get there. That's when you can say, "I always knew I'd [insert your goal]." That's the only time you can make that claim, really.
"No, seriously. You don't have a contingency plan?" You need an expected outcome to devise one, two, as many as you think you need. Since the business of writing comes with no guarantees: Of course we didn't! That would be like saying, yeah let's give it a try, let's commit but let's not get carried away, excited even, as if this means something, as if we're all serious and shit. Serious as fucking cancer! Anything worth doing and all that. It breaks my heart that my wonderful, talented, ambitious author-friends are hurting. It makes me wanna squeeze them and soothe them and tell them it's gonna be all right but I can't promise that, not to them, myself, anyone. But I will say this. In the undying dying words of Seamus Heaney: Noli timere. Don't be afraid.
Am I scared? No. Genocide is scary. And gendercide. Fascism. Homophobia. Hate in general. This? Since you are my sweet escape from all of the above, pour le fun, no. You know what else I'm thinking? You don't have to follow paths. Forge your own. Make like Gertrude Bell or Ranulph Fiennes. Tap into the explorer. There's one in everyone. And I know what you're thinking. Things are moving too fast for anyone to keep up with or analyze so how do you know where you should be headed and if you do know how do you get there? E-commerce, corporate cultures, the economy, it's all moving and evolving at the speed of sound, light even. New business models emerge and dated ones die and who knows where to head and how to get there. It's all one big expedition.
And I know you think fear is healthy, proof your self-preservation instinct still works, but too much is nothing but paralyzing. Who knows what's going to happen next year or next month or in the next two minutes. You can wish. You can hope. But you can never know for certain. Not until you get there. That's when you can say, "I always knew I'd end up [insert your destination]." That's the only time you can make that claim, really. So why worry. You may have no power over how the game is played but you can always improve your own performance. That's all you can do. That much you can always influence, whatever it is that you're trying to achieve.
That's what I think anyway. And you're thinking I'm not helping. This ain't helping. You want to write and you want to be published and you want to succeed and you know, you just know published authors know something you don't but they won't tell you what it is because it's a secret, The Secret. The Secret Ingredient. The Recipe. Now listen close. Like really listen. All ears? Here it comes. There is no recipe. And you're secret ingredient. And that's why this whole business can feel like one huge clusterfuck of frustrating counterproductive and counterintuitive forces at work, not the energizing life-affirming expedition you thought you'd embark on. No promises, no guarantees, a lot of work, sweat, even tears, for what exactly? You tell me. What's the point? Your point? Goal? Destination? Answer those questions and you'll know where you should go and what you should do, maybe even how to get there. Methinks.
As Takei would say, oh my. Shall we lighten up things some? What else have I been up to? Tackling my TBR and TBW pile and revisiting old favorites. Having a good time with Hubby. Raising my kids to bedissident decent compassionate human beings. Having fun with friends. Planning and saving up for future travels. Studying life, the universe and everything, trying to improve and advance one thing and day at a time. The Harvest Moon was magnificent and the fall equinox came and went and took the sun with it. The leaves are turning but the days were so warm for so long it was as if the summer had never ended. It was nice but it's coming to an end and as much as I'd like to think I'm ready, I'm all settled, I'm cool with this, I have my Dylan Thomas moments. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage on against the dying light. Then again, what's the point?
Told you I'd get logorrheic on you. Thanks for listening. TLDR? Hey, it's my blog. And it's your prerogative. Are you saying you haven't missed the soapbox and the sermons? Say it ain't so. And all I'm hearing once again is me-me-me. What have you been up to, sweetie darlings? I see you but I never hear from you. So now I'm listening. Like really listening. All ears. Still not hearing anything.
I'll get my coat.
(Come on, I've been so thrifty with words these past six months surely I'm allowed some now. And I've tried to write a post, several times, these past few weeks but what came out was a heap of all important nothings, and as important a part of convivial civilized interaction as they are, if the world were as civilized as it makes itself out to be, you and me and that guy over there should be able to speak freely without feeling fear, trepidation or threatened. So I thought, why not?)
Where on earth have I been, doing what exactly, leaving all (seven and that drive-by Serbian) of you wondering WTF? What the hell am I thinking?
Let's see.
I'm thinking anything worth doing is worth doing well and that I'm not as masterful a multitasker as I thought I was (imagine my surprise) so now that there's something else I need to do and somewhere else I need to be, I thought that's what I need to do and that's where I need to be then.
I'm also thinking about moving, or Hubby and I are, contemplating relocating quite far from where we are perched on top of the world. Only a thought at this point. Small but with immense potential for growth. Not even close to making a decision but we're considering options, thinking ahead. We told the kids we're playing with the thought and none said no outright, they just started asking questions. Where would we live and what's it like out there? What about school? The language?
They've traveled. They know this isn't all there is to the world. I've lived the life from a younger age than they are now. I know the pros and cons, believe me, and my kids know my history, where I've been and what it meant to me, what it gave me and what it took away. Mind you, it gave more than it took, by a wide margin, but I'll admit there was a time I resented the hell out of my parents for leaving Brazil. (The choice wasn't entirely theirs but I was a navel-gazing preteen who knew, who just knew they were doing it to run and ruin my life.) I got over it. Most of it. I think. Any day now.
But we're talking an absence of 5 to 10 years here. And in five to say nothing of ten years from now the place you now call home will have changed. Sometimes there's no going back. It happens. I grant you it's much easier to keep up with what's going on in any given country than it was in my youth. But there'll be moments when you realize you speak the language and still have no idea what people are talking about.
It's often some trivial mundane thing that betrays you but those prosaic touches reveal you for what you sometimes feel you are: a stranger in a strange land. Am I just faking it? Can they tell the difference? Like a spy hoping not to be made. I've found it's best not to hide those feelings or insecurities. Admit you don't know, don't apologize for all that you do know, alternative ways of thinking and handling matters and viewing the world.
This whole thing...not my idea or initiative. Hubby's. Related to his line of work and oh God don't be one of those stand-by-your-man women hauling ass and playing house so he can have a career and a family. Way ahead of you and the game, sweetie darlings. What I do I can do pretty much anywhere. The tropic, the arctic, sand, snow, home or away, I've got it covered.
Speaking of which, work is going well. Feeling genuinely accomplished and useful and I've found I need that. I need to be of service. Moving would mean another culture to study, another language to learn. Always a plus in my line of work. What is it that I do, again? What I love best, work with words and languages. On most days it's...I wouldn't use the word fun but certainly challenging and rewarding. On some it's a fight against cynicism, I kid you not. What's-the-matter-with-you-For-the-love-of-all-that-is holy-open-your-eyes-Enough-with-the-pettiness-and-provincialism-Let's-get-things-done-already-All-I'm-hearing-is-me-me-me. Days when you think that maybe you'd be better off on some desert island surviving on fish, mangos, avocados and coconut water, away from it all with books and pen and paper because the world is bat-shit crazy and beyond redemption or repair.
But then you remember that your family has other plans and that you'd miss your friends, partnered sex, boozy leisure, audiovisual entertainment and a regular change of scenery and that you really tire yourself out sometimes with your navel-gazing me-me-me so...no...and while you sometimes fantasize about a world of enlightened despotism with yours truly madly deeply in charge so we'd get things done already, it's not in the cards, is it, so now what? Go back to the task at hand and soldier on.
Isn't that precious, you say. It is. Invaluable, I say. Don't lose your head and don't waste your talents. There are people out there willing to pay good money for what you can do. And the writing? I haven't seen the forest from the trees. I don't have to strive to write for a living, I already do. Wonderful stuff, interesting stuff, meaningful stuff, just these past few months. Hiding in plain sight, really. If you knew where to look you'd find me, a woman who looks a lot like the lady in that pic ("What do you mean by a lot? That's not what you look like?" God, no. I don't usually bother with a straightener.), maybe even recognize my voice. If that happens, sweetie darlings, if you think you do, it's our secret and I trust you to keep it.
Every storytelling technique, every trick of the trade has only helped. Nothing's going to waste. And every new thing I've had to study only makes me a better storyteller. Win-win. What about the Romantica I had in the works? I'm still working on them. S l o w l y . I can't leave my characters hanging. I promised them a happy ending and right now they're really pissed. And I know what you're thinking. What's the point? With the pace I write and publish romance, what's the point?
That is the question. That is a very good question. A question every author, every professional, every human being should ask themselves every now and then. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? For me, counterpoint is the point. Counterbalance is the point. I need to write fiction more than this scene needs another book by the Parker girl. Not that I don't care about my readers, never think that, dearest denizens. What I'm trying to say is that writing fiction fulfills a need and grants a pleasure that supersedes other motives. I will always write fiction even if I never publish another book. But the fiction, just the fiction, ain't enough. I've tried so hard and for so long to strike a balance. And then I just...I didn't give up, I gave in. For country and for crowd or bust. That thought somehow takes off all the pressure. Anxiety and frustration lift. I will never be top banana. Doesn't make me a bad writer. Doesn't mean I don't have drive. Doesn't mean I don't have a voice or stories to tell. Will anyone be interested in that voice or those stories... That's another story, one I don't get to dictate on my own.
The rumors of Dita's social death, suicide really, have been right on the money. Sometimes there's no coming back. It happens. I've tried to keep up with what's going on but there'll be moments when I realize I thought I knew where it's at but have no idea what people are talking about. I'd be quite content just writing away, working behind the scenes. I'm painfully aware and constantly reminded of the fact I don't brand and market as aggressively as I should, but the brand and name recognition stuff...it's so messed up. Once upon a time you became a brand when you did something particularly well, when you were a cut above in your field or art or whatever. Nowadays, you have to have a brand, the whole package, laid and thought out before you've made a single move or created a thing and you gotta love the me-me-me.
Yeah, I know, nowadays be nowadays, not ye olden ways, and this is business and you don't sell a product without a USP so you better have one or make way for those who do, but what if you don't feel like a neat package, more like a multiple personality without the disorder? Is that a brand? "This is me then." Is that ever enough? The level of frustration and confusion, a general feeling of where shall we go, what shall we do, has reached new heights among...well, I guess Dita can't speak for anyone except a small segment of erotic romance authors. Established, popular authors seem to be doing okay. The rest... Maybe it's too early to call but some have put their numbers out there asking is it just me or have sales truly declined so drastically? Some are responding no it's not just you, others with thanks, not what I wanted to hear, I'll get my coat, what's the point.
That is the question. What's the point? No promises, no guarantees, a lot of work, sweat, even tears, for what exactly? But who promised or owes us, any author, any professional, anything, ever? Who guaranteed sales or success? Perpetual Pleasure hasn't sold well at all and of course it makes me sad and it makes me wonder and makes me quote Dickinson on occasion. I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? (Not particularly proud of those moments but there you have it.) Is it the price? Sub-genre? An author people don't know? The fact I'm not an aggressive marketer? Did they hate Alex and won't risk another disappointment? No reviews, not enough buzz or word of mouth? So I'm biased but it's not a bad book.
And I know how you feel. You put endless hours into something, do your loving best...but I'm thinking so does everybody else. What are you gonna do? Where shall we go? What shall we do? "Frankly, Dita, the Internet doesn't give a damn." True, that. I honestly don't know. I guess all we can do is ask what's the point, take it from there, and see how far it takes us.
"What do you mean you don't know? You honestly don't know, make room for those who do." Be my guests, please. But half, more than half, like a good two-thirds don't know, even if they say they do. You can wish. You can hope. But you can never know for certain. Not until you get there. That's when you can say, "I always knew I'd [insert your goal]." That's the only time you can make that claim, really.
"No, seriously. You don't have a contingency plan?" You need an expected outcome to devise one, two, as many as you think you need. Since the business of writing comes with no guarantees: Of course we didn't! That would be like saying, yeah let's give it a try, let's commit but let's not get carried away, excited even, as if this means something, as if we're all serious and shit. Serious as fucking cancer! Anything worth doing and all that. It breaks my heart that my wonderful, talented, ambitious author-friends are hurting. It makes me wanna squeeze them and soothe them and tell them it's gonna be all right but I can't promise that, not to them, myself, anyone. But I will say this. In the undying dying words of Seamus Heaney: Noli timere. Don't be afraid.
Am I scared? No. Genocide is scary. And gendercide. Fascism. Homophobia. Hate in general. This? Since you are my sweet escape from all of the above, pour le fun, no. You know what else I'm thinking? You don't have to follow paths. Forge your own. Make like Gertrude Bell or Ranulph Fiennes. Tap into the explorer. There's one in everyone. And I know what you're thinking. Things are moving too fast for anyone to keep up with or analyze so how do you know where you should be headed and if you do know how do you get there? E-commerce, corporate cultures, the economy, it's all moving and evolving at the speed of sound, light even. New business models emerge and dated ones die and who knows where to head and how to get there. It's all one big expedition.
And I know you think fear is healthy, proof your self-preservation instinct still works, but too much is nothing but paralyzing. Who knows what's going to happen next year or next month or in the next two minutes. You can wish. You can hope. But you can never know for certain. Not until you get there. That's when you can say, "I always knew I'd end up [insert your destination]." That's the only time you can make that claim, really. So why worry. You may have no power over how the game is played but you can always improve your own performance. That's all you can do. That much you can always influence, whatever it is that you're trying to achieve.
That's what I think anyway. And you're thinking I'm not helping. This ain't helping. You want to write and you want to be published and you want to succeed and you know, you just know published authors know something you don't but they won't tell you what it is because it's a secret, The Secret. The Secret Ingredient. The Recipe. Now listen close. Like really listen. All ears? Here it comes. There is no recipe. And you're secret ingredient. And that's why this whole business can feel like one huge clusterfuck of frustrating counterproductive and counterintuitive forces at work, not the energizing life-affirming expedition you thought you'd embark on. No promises, no guarantees, a lot of work, sweat, even tears, for what exactly? You tell me. What's the point? Your point? Goal? Destination? Answer those questions and you'll know where you should go and what you should do, maybe even how to get there. Methinks.
As Takei would say, oh my. Shall we lighten up things some? What else have I been up to? Tackling my TBR and TBW pile and revisiting old favorites. Having a good time with Hubby. Raising my kids to be
Told you I'd get logorrheic on you. Thanks for listening. TLDR? Hey, it's my blog. And it's your prerogative. Are you saying you haven't missed the soapbox and the sermons? Say it ain't so. And all I'm hearing once again is me-me-me. What have you been up to, sweetie darlings? I see you but I never hear from you. So now I'm listening. Like really listening. All ears. Still not hearing anything.
I'll get my coat.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition
Especially on a Sunday, but I want to ask you something related to the war of words that has been raging lately, and whether or not the fate of books is written in the stars. These
Sunday, August 12, 2012
This ain't a scene, it's an arms race
Andy Warhol once said that "In the future everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." I think it's safe to say the future is here. At least the proper distribution channels are all in place. You don't have to land a contract, know someone in the business or be the next best thing to get your music, films, books or art out there. Just put it out there.
Once upon a time few got published but those who were, were also read. Then more and more authors got published but ever fewer found an audience. Now everyone who wants to be published can be and fewer authors than ever are being read. This is a gross generalization, even a myth in part, but bear with me.
Many author-friends have written about this lately. I think about this constantly. That it's easier than ever getting your voice out there but harder than ever being heard. We're being sucked into a self-defeating cycle where we spend more and more time promoting our work and persona via promo posts and other social media activity alike in the hopes we stand out from the crowd. We do our best but so does most everyone else. Tweet our thumbs numb, update our statuses morning, noon and night and every snack in between, and it seems as if all we've accomplished at the end of the day is a cacophony of voices screaming over each other.
What if we only got to post once a day, be it Facebook, Twitter or some other group? Make it count! Or maybe what we need is some sort of Auto-Tune for Authors, "Turns your coffee cups into timeless nuggets of wisdom!". I enjoy coffee. I appreciate the fact that others enjoy their coffee. But I've rarely had a cup I felt compelled to chat about. Believe you me, when I do, you will hear all about it. Truth is, my coffee is pretty norm, my work days rather uneventful, and yes my kids are really smart and funny but you don't love them like I do so maybe you wouldn't enjoy reading about them half as much I would enjoy writing about them, you don't even know them and let's keep it that way, so how's the weather in your parts?
I know. It's being social, friendly, keeping the lines open and conversation flowing. What am I? Antisocial? No, just European, more straight-talker than small-talker. I just feel that when I do have something really important to relay, or someone else has, it gets lost in a Bermuda triangle of dirty coffee cups, what our kids or pets are up to, and all the funny/cute/appalling/witty things the Internet is full of. In that water we wade, trying to be seen, hoping to be heard, some waving, some drowning.
Not. Antisocial. Really. The cute and the funny and witty have saved my day more than once. So many interesting discussions going on on people's blogs, so many groups I'd love to be a part of and interact with. I'd love nothing more than to spend more time talking to all the lovely people out there, but when I have, that's been the day then. How do you do it? I'd love to hear how you reconcile it, find a balance. It's all so time-consuming. Are we just robbing each other of precious time?
It's probably a good time to be an established author. I don't know. Is it? Meanwhile, back in the jungle, the frog's eye view looks something like this: unless someone's looking for you, you're not likely to be found. Unless you're already fairly rooted, you're not likely to take flight. You can write a good book, a great book, the best book the clitterati has ever seen and never garner much attention.
I can hear the snickering and the sighs, "Oh sweetie, are you just figuring that out? That is so cute!" No. I know that's how it's been in all the arts since the dawn of man, since the day some ancient ancestor of ours pressed his or her hand against a rock and saw their creation. I bet they were appalled as hell that no one paid any attention to their doodle because everyone was so busy surviving. So. Are we just cavemen and women fighting for the chance to tell our tale by the fireside, fighting for survival, a place in the sun, the spotlight?
Is it going to get worse before it gets better? How much worse? Better when? Better how? The Best Authors You've Never Heard of Society keeps growing. Authors made of solid awesome writing pure gold slipping from relative anonymity into total obscurity. Because they can't or won't write full-time. Because they can't or won't promo day in and day out, because it takes you away from the business of writing, a business where you leave self-consciousness and the skin you live in at the door and enter another existence. Because promo is everything but, it's the very antithesis, self-conscious to the max. It's all about you. Not just your book. You. Who are you? Who do you write for? Why do you write? Not everyone wants to answer those questions in public. Not everyone wants to seek an answer to those questions even in private.
I have small children. I have another career. I have a tendency of keeping my feelings and opinions to myself because when I bring them out into the open I have a tendency of saying more than I probably should. (Q.E.D.) I have a book coming out. Only my second Romantica in some 24 months, which in publishing years is something like a decade. (What the hell happened? What usually happens. Life.) I don't stand a chance, do I?
Who does the future belong to? Those who shout the loudest, the longest? Those who can afford to keep at it? Those who write for the sheer pleasure of it, not for money, not for name recognition, not for respect? Those who are content just to have their voices out there regardless of whether or not they are heard? Who knows? I don't. Do you? What I do know is that the happiest people I know are the ones living their dream, doing what they want to do, regardless. I guess that will have to be incentive enough for all of us because for most of us, that is all the reward we have coming.
Once upon a time few got published but those who were, were also read. Then more and more authors got published but ever fewer found an audience. Now everyone who wants to be published can be and fewer authors than ever are being read. This is a gross generalization, even a myth in part, but bear with me.
Many author-friends have written about this lately. I think about this constantly. That it's easier than ever getting your voice out there but harder than ever being heard. We're being sucked into a self-defeating cycle where we spend more and more time promoting our work and persona via promo posts and other social media activity alike in the hopes we stand out from the crowd. We do our best but so does most everyone else. Tweet our thumbs numb, update our statuses morning, noon and night and every snack in between, and it seems as if all we've accomplished at the end of the day is a cacophony of voices screaming over each other.
What if we only got to post once a day, be it Facebook, Twitter or some other group? Make it count! Or maybe what we need is some sort of Auto-Tune for Authors, "Turns your coffee cups into timeless nuggets of wisdom!". I enjoy coffee. I appreciate the fact that others enjoy their coffee. But I've rarely had a cup I felt compelled to chat about. Believe you me, when I do, you will hear all about it. Truth is, my coffee is pretty norm, my work days rather uneventful, and yes my kids are really smart and funny but you don't love them like I do so maybe you wouldn't enjoy reading about them half as much I would enjoy writing about them, you don't even know them and let's keep it that way, so how's the weather in your parts?
I know. It's being social, friendly, keeping the lines open and conversation flowing. What am I? Antisocial? No, just European, more straight-talker than small-talker. I just feel that when I do have something really important to relay, or someone else has, it gets lost in a Bermuda triangle of dirty coffee cups, what our kids or pets are up to, and all the funny/cute/appalling/witty things the Internet is full of. In that water we wade, trying to be seen, hoping to be heard, some waving, some drowning.
Not. Antisocial. Really. The cute and the funny and witty have saved my day more than once. So many interesting discussions going on on people's blogs, so many groups I'd love to be a part of and interact with. I'd love nothing more than to spend more time talking to all the lovely people out there, but when I have, that's been the day then. How do you do it? I'd love to hear how you reconcile it, find a balance. It's all so time-consuming. Are we just robbing each other of precious time?
It's probably a good time to be an established author. I don't know. Is it? Meanwhile, back in the jungle, the frog's eye view looks something like this: unless someone's looking for you, you're not likely to be found. Unless you're already fairly rooted, you're not likely to take flight. You can write a good book, a great book, the best book the clitterati has ever seen and never garner much attention.
I can hear the snickering and the sighs, "Oh sweetie, are you just figuring that out? That is so cute!" No. I know that's how it's been in all the arts since the dawn of man, since the day some ancient ancestor of ours pressed his or her hand against a rock and saw their creation. I bet they were appalled as hell that no one paid any attention to their doodle because everyone was so busy surviving. So. Are we just cavemen and women fighting for the chance to tell our tale by the fireside, fighting for survival, a place in the sun, the spotlight?
Is it going to get worse before it gets better? How much worse? Better when? Better how? The Best Authors You've Never Heard of Society keeps growing. Authors made of solid awesome writing pure gold slipping from relative anonymity into total obscurity. Because they can't or won't write full-time. Because they can't or won't promo day in and day out, because it takes you away from the business of writing, a business where you leave self-consciousness and the skin you live in at the door and enter another existence. Because promo is everything but, it's the very antithesis, self-conscious to the max. It's all about you. Not just your book. You. Who are you? Who do you write for? Why do you write? Not everyone wants to answer those questions in public. Not everyone wants to seek an answer to those questions even in private.
I have small children. I have another career. I have a tendency of keeping my feelings and opinions to myself because when I bring them out into the open I have a tendency of saying more than I probably should. (Q.E.D.) I have a book coming out. Only my second Romantica in some 24 months, which in publishing years is something like a decade. (What the hell happened? What usually happens. Life.) I don't stand a chance, do I?
Who does the future belong to? Those who shout the loudest, the longest? Those who can afford to keep at it? Those who write for the sheer pleasure of it, not for money, not for name recognition, not for respect? Those who are content just to have their voices out there regardless of whether or not they are heard? Who knows? I don't. Do you? What I do know is that the happiest people I know are the ones living their dream, doing what they want to do, regardless. I guess that will have to be incentive enough for all of us because for most of us, that is all the reward we have coming.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Life on Mars
So, did you enjoy last week's musical interlude? Was it a coincidence they were all women? No such thing as coincidences in fiction, dearest denizens, or coming from a fiction writer. Not only are authors notoriously self-centered beings who think every word they spout is golden because it may have taken them a week to form a sentence to their liking or two days to find the perfect word to describe something that defies description, most every seemingly spontaneous move or syllable is a premeditated act. We don't want to waste our time so we go for maximum effect. We don't want to waste yours so what you see is what you get, at least for my part. I like to think that extends to other authors, too.
I want to take people at face value, think the best of them until proven otherwise. If someone wants to help, I believe they genuinely want to or else they wouldn't be putting precious time into it. If someone comes off as a total asshat then maybe that's what they are. If I get burned, my bad for being so naïve, but I'd rather be naïve than a cynic, or hate or fear people just to be on the safe side. Okay? Okay. (Told you, self-centered, always with the me, writers. Say something. Come on, I won't bite. I promise to love you until you reveal yourself as a total, unredeemable prick. And then I'll try to fix you. See? You can only win with Dita. Stopping with the me now.)
I don't know what kind of brand I can build except be myself. Dita is just a pen name, not role-playing. She's everything I am, or I'm everything she is. Downside: you have a problem with Dita, I take it personally. Upside: you have a problem with Dita, I take it seriously. I don't shrug it off, say girls will be girls, and detach myself.
And what on earth were we talking about anyway? Ooh, the ladies who kept you company last week. Why wouldn't I showcase them, they are awesome. Able Women Extraordinaire Stomping On Male Excess. (If you don't know me by now, a fair warning: I do this, a lot, jumping from one thing to the other. Imagine what the insides of my head look like. It's like Highway 401 in there. Stopping with the me now.)
Awkward transition, okay, nonexistent... Really milked being sick, didn't I, but you see, I apply a very strict policy over getting sick: I'm dead set against it. Hate it. Suck at it. Highly disruptive, on all areas of life. And still: it is done. The story I talked about, the story I shouted out about after pressing Send. I've been at it for what feels like forever but what else is new, I always have more than one pot cooking and this one took a long, slow simmer.
Leave it to me to turn a simple ditty into a never-ending story, but when you write a story with characters prancing around you think you might want to revisit, you find yourself doing the unthinkable, the highly improbable, something you're dead set against because it messes with your M.O.: you plot, outline some. I did, enough I wouldn't regret choices made in this story. And plotting...that's like asking me to prove there's life on Mars. If you ever get to read the story I sent out, I do hope you'll go, "I don't see it. Much ado about nothing. What's the problem? What a drama queen." If that's what you'll think, I've done something right.
You're not supposed to see the strings, the machinations, the blood, sweat and tears writers put into stories. They're supposed to flow and you're supposed to enjoy the ride and think what a lovely time we must have had writing away, even when we may have bawled our eyes out because the pieces won't fit, no trick does the trick, and the characters misbehave. We may have spent considerable time despairing over stepping on a road most of us didn't choose in the first place, it chose us, and all we can do is keep walking and laughing and crying and loving and hurting and writing writing writing until we get it right.
Leave it to me to turn a simple thing into a complex one and milk it for all it's worth but there you have it. I repeat what I said with conviction in So You Think You Can Write: whatever the story, it's a serious effort on my part, and I want to feel good about the end result, happy about it, proud even. I want to know my characters, have everything thought out (yeah, even pantsters get around to it at some point), even if mere snippets of all that work end up in the manuscript. No matter how long it takes, and it is time-consuming.
I still dream of writing full-time, getting there faster, getting those stories out faster, even with all the changes and uncertainty and piracy and fear mongering filling the airwaves and nibbling away at us hopefuls. Writers owe it to the road to give it a shot, give it all they got, don't you think? We have to honor it, not spit and pollute and trample. Have faith. Have patience.
Yes? No? Undecided? Say something. Anything. At least promise to think about it. And have faith and patience, will you. No small task, going digging for life on Mars, but I'm on it. To keep you happy, and for the selfish impulse of making myself happy, doing what I love, in two languages no less, in different genres. I'm not bragging. I'm laughing and crying and loving and hurting and writing. I'm grateful. Amazed. Hopeful.
Never let up with the me, did I? Oh well. My party, my funeral, my little corner of Blogistan.
I want to take people at face value, think the best of them until proven otherwise. If someone wants to help, I believe they genuinely want to or else they wouldn't be putting precious time into it. If someone comes off as a total asshat then maybe that's what they are. If I get burned, my bad for being so naïve, but I'd rather be naïve than a cynic, or hate or fear people just to be on the safe side. Okay? Okay. (Told you, self-centered, always with the me, writers. Say something. Come on, I won't bite. I promise to love you until you reveal yourself as a total, unredeemable prick. And then I'll try to fix you. See? You can only win with Dita. Stopping with the me now.)
I don't know what kind of brand I can build except be myself. Dita is just a pen name, not role-playing. She's everything I am, or I'm everything she is. Downside: you have a problem with Dita, I take it personally. Upside: you have a problem with Dita, I take it seriously. I don't shrug it off, say girls will be girls, and detach myself.
And what on earth were we talking about anyway? Ooh, the ladies who kept you company last week. Why wouldn't I showcase them, they are awesome. Able Women Extraordinaire Stomping On Male Excess. (If you don't know me by now, a fair warning: I do this, a lot, jumping from one thing to the other. Imagine what the insides of my head look like. It's like Highway 401 in there. Stopping with the me now.)
Awkward transition, okay, nonexistent... Really milked being sick, didn't I, but you see, I apply a very strict policy over getting sick: I'm dead set against it. Hate it. Suck at it. Highly disruptive, on all areas of life. And still: it is done. The story I talked about, the story I shouted out about after pressing Send. I've been at it for what feels like forever but what else is new, I always have more than one pot cooking and this one took a long, slow simmer.
Leave it to me to turn a simple ditty into a never-ending story, but when you write a story with characters prancing around you think you might want to revisit, you find yourself doing the unthinkable, the highly improbable, something you're dead set against because it messes with your M.O.: you plot, outline some. I did, enough I wouldn't regret choices made in this story. And plotting...that's like asking me to prove there's life on Mars. If you ever get to read the story I sent out, I do hope you'll go, "I don't see it. Much ado about nothing. What's the problem? What a drama queen." If that's what you'll think, I've done something right.
You're not supposed to see the strings, the machinations, the blood, sweat and tears writers put into stories. They're supposed to flow and you're supposed to enjoy the ride and think what a lovely time we must have had writing away, even when we may have bawled our eyes out because the pieces won't fit, no trick does the trick, and the characters misbehave. We may have spent considerable time despairing over stepping on a road most of us didn't choose in the first place, it chose us, and all we can do is keep walking and laughing and crying and loving and hurting and writing writing writing until we get it right.
Leave it to me to turn a simple thing into a complex one and milk it for all it's worth but there you have it. I repeat what I said with conviction in So You Think You Can Write: whatever the story, it's a serious effort on my part, and I want to feel good about the end result, happy about it, proud even. I want to know my characters, have everything thought out (yeah, even pantsters get around to it at some point), even if mere snippets of all that work end up in the manuscript. No matter how long it takes, and it is time-consuming.
I still dream of writing full-time, getting there faster, getting those stories out faster, even with all the changes and uncertainty and piracy and fear mongering filling the airwaves and nibbling away at us hopefuls. Writers owe it to the road to give it a shot, give it all they got, don't you think? We have to honor it, not spit and pollute and trample. Have faith. Have patience.
Yes? No? Undecided? Say something. Anything. At least promise to think about it. And have faith and patience, will you. No small task, going digging for life on Mars, but I'm on it. To keep you happy, and for the selfish impulse of making myself happy, doing what I love, in two languages no less, in different genres. I'm not bragging. I'm laughing and crying and loving and hurting and writing. I'm grateful. Amazed. Hopeful.
Never let up with the me, did I? Oh well. My party, my funeral, my little corner of Blogistan.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Spice up your life
To celebrate 10 years of refusing to behave, Ellora's Cave asked readers how EC books have improved their sex lives. The entries were so imaginative and fun, The Readers' Choice portion of the write-in contest will take seven weeks to settle.
The first round is on at Sex Talk for Wicked Women, with six more batches to come. The winner of each round wins a free eBook of her choice and becomes a semifinalist with the chance to win a netbook computer.
Romantica authors' working hours are as long and lonely as any other writers', so it's a rarer pleasure than you might believe to hear and learn that not only do readers find erotic romance fun and entertaining, it can be a sex lifesaver.
I'm happy to hear and proud to relate that these field reports and empirical findings corroborate and extend the scientifically proven health benefits of sex. Not a bad by-product of another day at the office. Not bad at all.
The first round is on at Sex Talk for Wicked Women, with six more batches to come. The winner of each round wins a free eBook of her choice and becomes a semifinalist with the chance to win a netbook computer.
Romantica authors' working hours are as long and lonely as any other writers', so it's a rarer pleasure than you might believe to hear and learn that not only do readers find erotic romance fun and entertaining, it can be a sex lifesaver.
I'm happy to hear and proud to relate that these field reports and empirical findings corroborate and extend the scientifically proven health benefits of sex. Not a bad by-product of another day at the office. Not bad at all.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The great pretenders
So what do you say to this year's Oscar nominees? I say yes yes yes to Christoph Waltz, he owned every scene, and Avatar's Best Original Screenplay snub. I say nein nein nein to the consistently amazing Samantha Morton being overlooked in the Best Supporting Actress category and Avatar running abreast Hurt Locker for nine awards. Avatar may be an imposing movie, it's just not an exceptionally good one.
Great diversity in the Best Picture category, even if they only had one slot for a film where sports tackles racism. But Up is up there, and when was the last time an animated film qualified? (Goes check... In 1991. Beauty and the Beast.) Up in the Air made it, living proof romance (in American cinema) isn't (brain) dead. Precious, Inglorious Basterds, District 9...
Awkward transition, okay, nonexistent...
After reading a short story of mine, a friend asked: "Who are you in this story?" She wanted to know which one of the characters was based on me. She knows me well enough to try to search for me in my stories, to hear my voice, not only my writing voice or that of my characters. I'd also managed to create enough distance between these voices and personalities that in the end she wasn't sure what and who she heard. So she asked, and I answered: I'm none of them, for sure. I'm all of them, surely.
Like actors call upon everything they've ever had the pleasure or misfortune of learning about the human condition, and study the rest, so do writers dig up every joy, pain and sorrow they've lived through and imagine what they have not had the delight or horror of experiencing firsthand. It's the same with translators. We're not quite as mad as we seem, only impersonating, but since the best of us are doing such an outstanding job creating a multitude of fully developed selves, no wonder some people get confused about fact and fiction, author/actor and their art.
The most talented of these mimes step not only into someone else's shoes but someone else's skin, and when they get into character we don't see role playing, we don't think "role"; we recognize life. Depicting monstrosities without passing judgment requires a great deal of empathy. You have to be able to digest much. Everything, actually. Not blindly idolizing people, for all their heroism, takes a hefty dose of cool detachment. You have to doubt what you're sure of, at least every now and then.
All of the above entail imagination, being blessed (or cursed?) with a vivid mind. What is bigotry, what is hatred, but fear of the unknown and a severe lack of imagination? You can't portray, at least not convincingly, what you won't understand.
However you achieve an impassive approach to whatever you're impassioned about, you have to cover your tracks. Acting, writing, translating...you cannot be caught doing it. You can't let your technique show or what you tried to depict becomes an imitation of life or reads as Translationese making it that much harder for your audience to suspend disbelief.
I have great respect and immense admiration for those who fool me into believing it is someone's life unfolding before my eyes or mind's eye as I read or watch, not merely a counterfeit one. That is no small talent, having such a powerful yet ethereal effect. It's a magnificent one.
Great diversity in the Best Picture category, even if they only had one slot for a film where sports tackles racism. But Up is up there, and when was the last time an animated film qualified? (Goes check... In 1991. Beauty and the Beast.) Up in the Air made it, living proof romance (in American cinema) isn't (brain) dead. Precious, Inglorious Basterds, District 9...
Awkward transition, okay, nonexistent...
After reading a short story of mine, a friend asked: "Who are you in this story?" She wanted to know which one of the characters was based on me. She knows me well enough to try to search for me in my stories, to hear my voice, not only my writing voice or that of my characters. I'd also managed to create enough distance between these voices and personalities that in the end she wasn't sure what and who she heard. So she asked, and I answered: I'm none of them, for sure. I'm all of them, surely.
Like actors call upon everything they've ever had the pleasure or misfortune of learning about the human condition, and study the rest, so do writers dig up every joy, pain and sorrow they've lived through and imagine what they have not had the delight or horror of experiencing firsthand. It's the same with translators. We're not quite as mad as we seem, only impersonating, but since the best of us are doing such an outstanding job creating a multitude of fully developed selves, no wonder some people get confused about fact and fiction, author/actor and their art.
The most talented of these mimes step not only into someone else's shoes but someone else's skin, and when they get into character we don't see role playing, we don't think "role"; we recognize life. Depicting monstrosities without passing judgment requires a great deal of empathy. You have to be able to digest much. Everything, actually. Not blindly idolizing people, for all their heroism, takes a hefty dose of cool detachment. You have to doubt what you're sure of, at least every now and then.
All of the above entail imagination, being blessed (or cursed?) with a vivid mind. What is bigotry, what is hatred, but fear of the unknown and a severe lack of imagination? You can't portray, at least not convincingly, what you won't understand.
However you achieve an impassive approach to whatever you're impassioned about, you have to cover your tracks. Acting, writing, translating...you cannot be caught doing it. You can't let your technique show or what you tried to depict becomes an imitation of life or reads as Translationese making it that much harder for your audience to suspend disbelief.
I have great respect and immense admiration for those who fool me into believing it is someone's life unfolding before my eyes or mind's eye as I read or watch, not merely a counterfeit one. That is no small talent, having such a powerful yet ethereal effect. It's a magnificent one.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Patience, like grace, probably just lost on the fast and furious
Dear Aspiring Author:
Spell check. If I could offer you one tip for 2010, spell check would be it. Spell check is the foremost piece of advice you will find everywhere you look for guidance, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own slowly gathering experience.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a compulsive wordsmith must be in want of an outlet. But first said wordsmith has to face the fact the book market consists of book markets. You must be able to picture where in a bookstore would you find your book and how will you stand out in a bookshelf, actual or digital. Who writes in you, through you, and what? Meaning:
Read. Reading the market equals knowing the market. Submitting what isn't selling means you would have had to come up with something truly original to receive an offer. Submitting what is selling means you would have had to come up with something truly original to receive an offer. Don't despair. As long as you are storytelling and not propagating, your tales are as valid as anyone else's. Think about it. As valid as, as long as they ring true. True to life; emotionally true.
It's not a matter of what you write, you can write about anything, but how you do it. So what do you like? What don't you like? Can you spell out why? How would you have done it? You can learn as much reading what you truly love as you can reading something which leaves you unaffected.
Whatever is in you only waiting to be put down in words, let it out. Without self-consciousness or thoughts of someone reading it, without correcting things as you go. Concentrate on the extracurricular while working on your first draft and develop instant writer's block, that mythical monster, the great-grandmother of all scapegoats. Repeat after me: There is no such thing.
There is always something to write about, starting with how it feels to sit there with nothing to write about. What comes out as a result may be writer's crap, but if there's none of that coming out, ever, I suspect there's not much else coming out, either. How to evaluate? Get a second opinion. Find a critique partner. Not a yes-man but a no-ma'am to give you grief. If your time is valuable, your editor's is twice as costly, and every penny you save him/her is a penny earned. You can take that to the bank.
Life may be stranger than fiction, but in fiction there are no lucky coincidences or divine interventions, only solid reasoning. Whether or not you believe it to be true in real life, your writing maxim should be: Everything happens for a reason. Every movie frame counts. Make your every word, character and scene count. Anything else must go. Even if it's the most beautiful piece of prose you've written, if there is no justifiable place or purpose for it, kill it.
Think of your story as a puzzle. You may or may not have a picture of the big picture starting out. You don't always need one. It doesn't even matter whether you start with the frame or some detail. You only need to make the pieces fit seamlessly and make sure you find any missing ones. You can't make up for those. Leave the puzzle undone and those missing pieces will become the center of attention.
Engage. Life, love and livelihood are contact sports; win some, lose some. Absolutely zilch will sail your way if you stand on the sidelines, doing what? Hoping someone will notice you feel ignored? Stop that. Step up instead. Get in the ring and take the stare downs. Engage, but please do not start dealing knockouts. As today's birthday boy phrased it: Tact is the knack of making a point without making an enemy.
I know it takes courage, determination, patience, and fearless faith to live in doubt and constant expectation, to handle rejection while still believing no good read goes unpublished. I can't give you those, only ask you to hold on. If you don't believe in yourself, no one else will.
Don't waste your time writing halfheartedly and break the hearts of readers expecting to feel and taste that heart. If you expect to phone it in, maybe you should be doing something altogether different with that phone. Marketing, perhaps? Selling dreams is a whole lot easier than making them happen. And it is all up to you to make it happen. Your heart, your words. Your hard work, your faith in yourself, your inspiration. No cheat codes, no shortcuts.
Having said that, don't expect your muse, Dulcinea, or whatever spirit moves you to phone it in either. If your dream is to write for a living, even part-time, writing is what you should be doing, not waiting for a leg up. Writing begets writing, as Dorianne Laux will tell you. Those bouts of writer's crap are only a means to an end, not the Complete Works of.
But if what comes out after thousands upon thousands of hours of sitting and thinking keeps stinking, if rejections keep coming in by the hundreds, well, there are still a million and a half other things left you might be perfect for. Go all-out Les Mis and wail life killed the dream you dreamed if it helps you get over it, but do move on eventually.
Who am I again? Do I even know what I'm talking about? I'm aware. I'm aware of my strengths and weaknesses, as should you be. In a world where it may seem you don't need to know who you are, only what you want, may I suggest you don't pass by yourself without taking notice. Inquisitiveness is golden and bewilderment nothing to be afraid of. Some of the most important things in this life only the lost can find.
Okay, whatever, thanks? Please trust me on the spell check.
Spell check. If I could offer you one tip for 2010, spell check would be it. Spell check is the foremost piece of advice you will find everywhere you look for guidance, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own slowly gathering experience.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a compulsive wordsmith must be in want of an outlet. But first said wordsmith has to face the fact the book market consists of book markets. You must be able to picture where in a bookstore would you find your book and how will you stand out in a bookshelf, actual or digital. Who writes in you, through you, and what? Meaning:
Read. Reading the market equals knowing the market. Submitting what isn't selling means you would have had to come up with something truly original to receive an offer. Submitting what is selling means you would have had to come up with something truly original to receive an offer. Don't despair. As long as you are storytelling and not propagating, your tales are as valid as anyone else's. Think about it. As valid as, as long as they ring true. True to life; emotionally true.
It's not a matter of what you write, you can write about anything, but how you do it. So what do you like? What don't you like? Can you spell out why? How would you have done it? You can learn as much reading what you truly love as you can reading something which leaves you unaffected.
Whatever is in you only waiting to be put down in words, let it out. Without self-consciousness or thoughts of someone reading it, without correcting things as you go. Concentrate on the extracurricular while working on your first draft and develop instant writer's block, that mythical monster, the great-grandmother of all scapegoats. Repeat after me: There is no such thing.
There is always something to write about, starting with how it feels to sit there with nothing to write about. What comes out as a result may be writer's crap, but if there's none of that coming out, ever, I suspect there's not much else coming out, either. How to evaluate? Get a second opinion. Find a critique partner. Not a yes-man but a no-ma'am to give you grief. If your time is valuable, your editor's is twice as costly, and every penny you save him/her is a penny earned. You can take that to the bank.
Life may be stranger than fiction, but in fiction there are no lucky coincidences or divine interventions, only solid reasoning. Whether or not you believe it to be true in real life, your writing maxim should be: Everything happens for a reason. Every movie frame counts. Make your every word, character and scene count. Anything else must go. Even if it's the most beautiful piece of prose you've written, if there is no justifiable place or purpose for it, kill it.
Think of your story as a puzzle. You may or may not have a picture of the big picture starting out. You don't always need one. It doesn't even matter whether you start with the frame or some detail. You only need to make the pieces fit seamlessly and make sure you find any missing ones. You can't make up for those. Leave the puzzle undone and those missing pieces will become the center of attention.
Engage. Life, love and livelihood are contact sports; win some, lose some. Absolutely zilch will sail your way if you stand on the sidelines, doing what? Hoping someone will notice you feel ignored? Stop that. Step up instead. Get in the ring and take the stare downs. Engage, but please do not start dealing knockouts. As today's birthday boy phrased it: Tact is the knack of making a point without making an enemy.
I know it takes courage, determination, patience, and fearless faith to live in doubt and constant expectation, to handle rejection while still believing no good read goes unpublished. I can't give you those, only ask you to hold on. If you don't believe in yourself, no one else will.
Don't waste your time writing halfheartedly and break the hearts of readers expecting to feel and taste that heart. If you expect to phone it in, maybe you should be doing something altogether different with that phone. Marketing, perhaps? Selling dreams is a whole lot easier than making them happen. And it is all up to you to make it happen. Your heart, your words. Your hard work, your faith in yourself, your inspiration. No cheat codes, no shortcuts.
Having said that, don't expect your muse, Dulcinea, or whatever spirit moves you to phone it in either. If your dream is to write for a living, even part-time, writing is what you should be doing, not waiting for a leg up. Writing begets writing, as Dorianne Laux will tell you. Those bouts of writer's crap are only a means to an end, not the Complete Works of.
But if what comes out after thousands upon thousands of hours of sitting and thinking keeps stinking, if rejections keep coming in by the hundreds, well, there are still a million and a half other things left you might be perfect for. Go all-out Les Mis and wail life killed the dream you dreamed if it helps you get over it, but do move on eventually.
Who am I again? Do I even know what I'm talking about? I'm aware. I'm aware of my strengths and weaknesses, as should you be. In a world where it may seem you don't need to know who you are, only what you want, may I suggest you don't pass by yourself without taking notice. Inquisitiveness is golden and bewilderment nothing to be afraid of. Some of the most important things in this life only the lost can find.
Okay, whatever, thanks? Please trust me on the spell check.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Shakespeare's sisters
Ladies, choose your weapons, Mars attacks! Not really, but trenches have been under construction here and there after Publishers Weekly announced their Best Books of 2009 list. What's wrong with the list? Nothing on first glance, but the Top 10 has been weighed, measured and found lacking in one notable segment of writers, i.e. women.
You probably wouldn't reject something solely on the basis it was written by a man or automatically like something because a woman wrote it. A good book is a good book. And taste is a subjective issue. So what does it matter what PW's list looks like? It's a list and for many that's all it is: just another list. But it's a list that gets coverage, sells books, helps define quality. And it's notably lacking in women.
How many women would have made it okay? One? Fifty-one percent? What if there had been no men on that list? Impossible, you say? If it's a coincidence, if gender has nothing to do with anything, how so? So women did write inferior books, is that it? Or do men have an automatic advantage women suspect/know is there but PW categorically denies exists?
See how easily and how fast discussions like this escalate into a Mars versus Venus battle of the sexes? Come on, they do. Many women, assertive women, competent and competitive women are shrugging their so whats thinking it's nothing because they have gone through life pretending sexual biases don't exist. Or it isn't pretending, per se, but rather a self-assuredness and forcefulness born out of all that competence and a sincere belief in equality which has taken many women far and even further.
But none of those women could say they didn't encounter at least once along the way someone who didn't share that belief, who couldn't get past the face or the figure, or who didn't carry a sexist grudge that tainted everything making it that much harder for them to get along and move on. This someone wasn't necessarily a man.
Then again maybe it was and you see where the story is headed since all women have been there at some point in their lives. Trivial or life-altering, we tend to remember the moments we turned invisible. Because we felt senseless shame. We felt rage. We felt indignation. No matter how stupid the remark, how idiotic or inconsequential the person or the situation, it raises that "Not-this-bs-again-Couldn't-think-of-anything-else-could-you-The-more-things-change-the-more-they-stay-the-same" feeling women hate hate hate. I'm sure I had a point before jumping into a trench myself...
No, that is my point. That is exactly the feeling lists like this raise. Because art isn't an exact science, it's a compilation of subjective choices without objective meters, none that they have disclosed in detail anyway, and it's therefore easy to take it as a personal affront no matter how hard you tell yourself it doesn't matter one way or the other.
"Really?" (SNL could take it from here.) "50,000 to choose from and not a single woman made the cut? Really?" I wouldn't want a pc consolation prize to be handed out, PW is free to choose whatever they want with whatever criteria they may or may not have, but ten men? Really? What are the odds? What is their ranking method anyway?
I've read two books from that list: Holmes' The Age of Wonder and Grann's Lost City of Z. I highly recommend them, but I could just as well recommend picking up Atwood's The Year of the Flood or Munro's Too Much Happiness: Stories. They made my list.
You probably wouldn't reject something solely on the basis it was written by a man or automatically like something because a woman wrote it. A good book is a good book. And taste is a subjective issue. So what does it matter what PW's list looks like? It's a list and for many that's all it is: just another list. But it's a list that gets coverage, sells books, helps define quality. And it's notably lacking in women.
How many women would have made it okay? One? Fifty-one percent? What if there had been no men on that list? Impossible, you say? If it's a coincidence, if gender has nothing to do with anything, how so? So women did write inferior books, is that it? Or do men have an automatic advantage women suspect/know is there but PW categorically denies exists?
See how easily and how fast discussions like this escalate into a Mars versus Venus battle of the sexes? Come on, they do. Many women, assertive women, competent and competitive women are shrugging their so whats thinking it's nothing because they have gone through life pretending sexual biases don't exist. Or it isn't pretending, per se, but rather a self-assuredness and forcefulness born out of all that competence and a sincere belief in equality which has taken many women far and even further.
But none of those women could say they didn't encounter at least once along the way someone who didn't share that belief, who couldn't get past the face or the figure, or who didn't carry a sexist grudge that tainted everything making it that much harder for them to get along and move on. This someone wasn't necessarily a man.
Then again maybe it was and you see where the story is headed since all women have been there at some point in their lives. Trivial or life-altering, we tend to remember the moments we turned invisible. Because we felt senseless shame. We felt rage. We felt indignation. No matter how stupid the remark, how idiotic or inconsequential the person or the situation, it raises that "Not-this-bs-again-Couldn't-think-of-anything-else-could-you-The-more-things-change-the-more-they-stay-the-same" feeling women hate hate hate. I'm sure I had a point before jumping into a trench myself...
No, that is my point. That is exactly the feeling lists like this raise. Because art isn't an exact science, it's a compilation of subjective choices without objective meters, none that they have disclosed in detail anyway, and it's therefore easy to take it as a personal affront no matter how hard you tell yourself it doesn't matter one way or the other.
"Really?" (SNL could take it from here.) "50,000 to choose from and not a single woman made the cut? Really?" I wouldn't want a pc consolation prize to be handed out, PW is free to choose whatever they want with whatever criteria they may or may not have, but ten men? Really? What are the odds? What is their ranking method anyway?
I've read two books from that list: Holmes' The Age of Wonder and Grann's Lost City of Z. I highly recommend them, but I could just as well recommend picking up Atwood's The Year of the Flood or Munro's Too Much Happiness: Stories. They made my list.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Don't lose your head
I got lost on the way to work and ended up roaming Blogistan for far longer than I had intended. What I didn't write, I made up in reading. Fantastic stuff. Brilliant characters. Time robbers and hateful rubbish. Opinions, attitude and even substance.
Cyberspace is to man as the universe is to mankind. It makes you feel small, it makes you wonder can anyone see or hear you, and if you don't take care it will make you lose your sense of purpose and direction.
Case example: The Accidental Writer, AW for short. AW writes a naughty and nice story and gets hint exactly where to submit. She does; the required digest, a witty query letter, curious about where she stands as far as this particular genre stands. Will she receive a generic rejection? Will she get any answer?
AW has no way of knowing for sure. Back in the writing game after some odd years in odd jobs in odd places, it's the first story she sends out. But she has a good feeling about this. Call it intuition. In that moment in time, that story feels right for its market.
She receives an offer for it she accepts. Some of you are now calling her a lucky bastard, some of you are shouting "Lucky bitch!" and some are wondering what she has done to deserve a lucky break like that. All of you will have to stop mentioning luck. As far as AW knows, it's not a matter of luck but a combination of pitching, talent and timing. The right story in the right place at the right time.
"So now what," asks AW, and those of you who haven't spaced out. "Write it and they will read it, right? No? No?! What do you mean who and where are 'they'? The ones at the end of the rainbow, of course. The readers."
We're losing AW again. She's getting lost in space, deep in cyberspace, searching for those readers and that rainbow. She wrote that naughty and nice story; she got an offer for it; she is working to work it out and get it out. And no one will ever find out about it if she doesn't get to the right place at the right time, manuscript in hand. Here's hoping AW navigates her way there and back and back out again.
Social media can make you a king for a day and a fool for a lifetime. Knowing your limits and honoring other obligations is essential, but pleading total ignorance about the importance of meeting and greeting and generally sticking your neck out won't do. You don't get published by accident. You don't want to be ignored by accident either.
Cyberspace is to man as the universe is to mankind. It makes you feel small, it makes you wonder can anyone see or hear you, and if you don't take care it will make you lose your sense of purpose and direction.
Case example: The Accidental Writer, AW for short. AW writes a naughty and nice story and gets hint exactly where to submit. She does; the required digest, a witty query letter, curious about where she stands as far as this particular genre stands. Will she receive a generic rejection? Will she get any answer?
AW has no way of knowing for sure. Back in the writing game after some odd years in odd jobs in odd places, it's the first story she sends out. But she has a good feeling about this. Call it intuition. In that moment in time, that story feels right for its market.
She receives an offer for it she accepts. Some of you are now calling her a lucky bastard, some of you are shouting "Lucky bitch!" and some are wondering what she has done to deserve a lucky break like that. All of you will have to stop mentioning luck. As far as AW knows, it's not a matter of luck but a combination of pitching, talent and timing. The right story in the right place at the right time.
"So now what," asks AW, and those of you who haven't spaced out. "Write it and they will read it, right? No? No?! What do you mean who and where are 'they'? The ones at the end of the rainbow, of course. The readers."
We're losing AW again. She's getting lost in space, deep in cyberspace, searching for those readers and that rainbow. She wrote that naughty and nice story; she got an offer for it; she is working to work it out and get it out. And no one will ever find out about it if she doesn't get to the right place at the right time, manuscript in hand. Here's hoping AW navigates her way there and back and back out again.
Social media can make you a king for a day and a fool for a lifetime. Knowing your limits and honoring other obligations is essential, but pleading total ignorance about the importance of meeting and greeting and generally sticking your neck out won't do. You don't get published by accident. You don't want to be ignored by accident either.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Attack of the Amazon Women (and A Few Good Men)
This is bad, I commented on Jaci Burton's blog. This is unacceptable. And I'm madder than Howard Beale. I sent Amazon my seething sentiment, nothing as coherent and structured as Jaci's fine lines I'm afraid, only something as illogical and absurd as what Amazon came up with.
Dear Amazon.com
Some alarming gagging, binding and blindfolding action was brought to my attention. Since said action was mostly done by you, I would like for you to extend the invasion of my tastes, free thinking and bedroom to other parts of my mental and physical health as well, to say nothing of house and garden.
We have a snail problem I suggest you help solve by removing all mention of books that even refer to the nasty vermin eating their way through my vegetable garden. Rafflesias are rather ugly and smelly; please keep a vigilant watch in case they sprout. Keep hits pertaining to carbs and fatty foods to a minimum lest people take to eating them as they may be bad for you. I'm also deeply, heartily offended by any and all mention of tobacco and smoking; they are surely worse.
Since you have made individual taste an objective issue, I will keep adding to the list until we are all safe as mother's milk. Or is it safe to mention breastfeeding? Oh no, I almost said 'boob', and maybe insulted bottle feeding moms while at it. Help me, Amazon; you're my only hope.
OR you can rethink your policies, apologize for the patronizing liberties someone took with the freedom of others, and make sure that as long as no laws are broken, writers not only get published but read as well, and your customers keep getting top-notch service in the form of all-inclusive information and open access.
If you concede that only gods get things right the first time, a) you turn this around, b) you grant that none of us are casting defected. All different - All equal; all the world knows this yet still does not practice. Please do not join that caravan.
Proverbially yours,
Dita Parker
Yeah, I climbed on that soapbox, didn't I? Couldn't help it. I get teased all the time for my intolerance against intolerance, so there you have it. I saw red. Customer Service replied that they had "recently discovered a glitch in [their] systems and it's being fixed." I sure hope so, or there will be Listmania galore.
They didn't ask what I might be referring to. They knew; so good for you, i.e. all those of you who took and are taking action.
Dear Amazon.com
Some alarming gagging, binding and blindfolding action was brought to my attention. Since said action was mostly done by you, I would like for you to extend the invasion of my tastes, free thinking and bedroom to other parts of my mental and physical health as well, to say nothing of house and garden.
We have a snail problem I suggest you help solve by removing all mention of books that even refer to the nasty vermin eating their way through my vegetable garden. Rafflesias are rather ugly and smelly; please keep a vigilant watch in case they sprout. Keep hits pertaining to carbs and fatty foods to a minimum lest people take to eating them as they may be bad for you. I'm also deeply, heartily offended by any and all mention of tobacco and smoking; they are surely worse.
Since you have made individual taste an objective issue, I will keep adding to the list until we are all safe as mother's milk. Or is it safe to mention breastfeeding? Oh no, I almost said 'boob', and maybe insulted bottle feeding moms while at it. Help me, Amazon; you're my only hope.
OR you can rethink your policies, apologize for the patronizing liberties someone took with the freedom of others, and make sure that as long as no laws are broken, writers not only get published but read as well, and your customers keep getting top-notch service in the form of all-inclusive information and open access.
If you concede that only gods get things right the first time, a) you turn this around, b) you grant that none of us are casting defected. All different - All equal; all the world knows this yet still does not practice. Please do not join that caravan.
Proverbially yours,
Dita Parker
Yeah, I climbed on that soapbox, didn't I? Couldn't help it. I get teased all the time for my intolerance against intolerance, so there you have it. I saw red. Customer Service replied that they had "recently discovered a glitch in [their] systems and it's being fixed." I sure hope so, or there will be Listmania galore.
They didn't ask what I might be referring to. They knew; so good for you, i.e. all those of you who took and are taking action.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Here comes the Sun
It dawned on me, just in perfect timing with the Equinox, that the Universe has a unique sense of balance, and a quaint sense of humor.
I had been detained again after my Great Escape, and it's always a downer, so help me, it is, the cold light and the cool air of the North after all the warmth and the colors of the South. I was tempted to wallow in some serious subcontinental homesick blues, my head and heart about to burst from all the beauty and the experiences I had breathed in.
I had to exhale, to get it all down, or as much of it as was sensible, usable and memorable, including the far from Kodak moments. Especially those. But what about the things that defy language and explanation? Those are often the things that would best describe what you miss and love most about a place. Those also happen to be the parts that get lost in translation, the things that would die with you if you were the last known representative of culture X, since you could not satisfactorily capture the meaning and true essence of something.
Still, I was about to get to it; try and do the seemingly impossible and breathe life into things without names, as writers tend to in their pathology. It makes for horrible convoluted senseless ramblings. It makes for fresh ways of looking at things, observations many have felt to be true somehow but haven't been able to voice or put down in writing. I can only hope that as time and talent progresses, I will do more of the latter than the former.
Ready to explode as I was, I came back wishing I had more time to write. Boys and girls, it is true what they say about being careful what you wish for: the Lord Marshal of employment made it so. But, drum roll...I had gotten my first literary callback, if you can call it that. I just did. Homesickness healed in record time, my stinky stinging pride was soothed. One more moment defying description; I am beyond elated. Like Jenny and her folk singing career in Forrest Gump, I'm the proverbial penniless poet, even if I can't write verse to save my life. (Threaten my kids and I'll get iambic on you.)
Truly, believe me when I say that no matter what the outcome on this one is, the encouragement and boost I got will more than make up for the disappointment I may be heading towards. Until then, BICHOK it is.
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