Often the advice “write what you know” is bandied about. I always took this to mean that you must draw from your own experiences when you write. This is obviously good advice but not much use if you’re writing about someone living on the planet Pandora. It should go deeper and further than that.
I think the advice should be ” write what you know to be true” or “write from a place that is true to you” or “write what is the truth for the characters.” Actually all three of these statements are important.
I don’t know about you, but when I cop out or try to gloss over a piece of dialogue or a scene that I know isn’t working I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. As a less experienced writer I would often try to conceal this with more words, but eventually you have to ask yourself “What the hell am I trying to say here?” and if you can’t answer the question, then cut it.
Meaning that no matter what the genre or the level of imagination and creativity involved is, be honest in your writing. Find the thread that resonates so that you can write about teenage speed freaks or serial murderers or beauty queens or bow-hunting or someone from Pandora.
I think it’s probably accurate to say that most writers are observant. That most find it possible to slip into someone else’s shoes (and thoughts and habits), but I also think that we have some kind of inner detector (a bullshit detector, if you will) and if we are not writing from a place of honesty, but rather taking the easy way, or not digging deep enough, then the detector sends a signal.
Unfortunately it is not an electric shock so it can be ignored. But to the detriment of the writing. It is not easy to peel away the layers until you get to the real feelings, but it makes for a better story and one that resonates on a deeper level than say, a Hallmark greeting card.
Going beneath the surface, gets you to the heart of the character, and gets you to a level where your characters can start to assert themselves.
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Write What is True
February 8th, 2010In Betweening
February 5th, 2010As many of you know, I just finished a WIP (FIERCE).
I am awaiting editor’s notes on my YA, LUCKY (to be published by Scholastic in 2011- sorry just have to mention that enough times that it sinks in!
I have made copious notes and rambling outline of new WIP (tentative title: BRINY DEEP).
Right now, the new story idea is like a soft little boneless animal, wrapped in blankets, and tucked in my lap. I peel the covers away from it every once in awhile, but I try to keep my self from looking or disturbing it.
It may get cold. It may stop growing. It’s doing things there in the dark and the warmth, away from my laser-bright gaze.
Making itself into something that will let me shape it, and pummel it, and knead it eventually into the form of a story. But first it has to be kept quiet.
And I have to leave it alone. Just let the occasional word or picture float into my mind. Most of the time I don’t even write them down, or add to the notes, because it’s about a feeling, a mood for the book that I am considering. Once I’ve inspected enough of these fleeting sensations, I will know which one best fits.
I know I want to start it with my heroine on a bus, leaving everything she knows, heading to nowhere, but beyond that I will not let myself travel.
Everything in me (the writerly bits) is yelping and surging against the leash, wanting to submerge itself. But I am exhausted from the frenetic schedule of the last six months which was FIERCE (and the six months before that which was LUCKY) and I know that if I dive in now, I will almost certainly screw it up.
So for a little while longer, I will keep myself from it, and read, and watch movies and have amazing dreams.
Do you go straight from project to project or do you pause for a while in-between?
Here’s a list of the books I am reading or will soon read:
Non-YA-
When will there be good news?/ Kate Atkinson
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo/Stieg Larsson
Murder in the Rue Paradis/ Cara Black
The Eye of the World/ Robert Jordan
The Grand Tour/ Patricia C. Wrede
YA-
The Islands of the Blessed/ Nancy Farmer
Death at Deacon Pond/ E.M. Alexander
City of Ashes & City of Glass/ Cassandra Clare
Beautiful Creatures/ Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl
The Poisons of Caux/ Susannah Appelbaum
Liar/ Justine Larbalestier
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My Beta Readers
February 4th, 2010I have 4 beta readers. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I have 5. These are the people who read everything I write once it’s completed and before I send it to my agent and then hopefully to my editor.
These people are not certified beta readers.
They are all big readers across many different genres.
They are all family, so as another writer I know recently revealed I don’t have to worry about any of them stealing one of my book ideas. The trust issue isn’t an issue.
One is my one-woman cheerleading squad. She’s the only person who sometimes reads along while I write because she is infallibly enthusiastic and supportive and probably one of the main reasons I ever finish anything. Without her, it is likely that I would give up halfway through when things tend to get knotty.
One is a university professor and a writer of non-fiction herself.
One is a reader of smart sci-fi and maritime historical fiction and non-fiction.
One is a 17 year old girl who reads YA pretty much exclusively. ‘Cause the other stuff is boring, innit?!
Between them I tend to get a lot of feedback and a lot of criticsm. If it wasn’t for them I would lack the confidence to ever send anything to my agent, who although he is totally supportive and a ‘Jo’ fan, is also incredibly busy wheeling and dealing for all his clients.
How do you choose your beta readers?
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FIERCE
February 4th, 2010Oh, yeah….after complaining about how hard it was to write/ finish my WIP, FIERCE, I completely forgot to mention that I did finish it. On Tuesday at 12:52 pm. 228 pages, 61, 228 words.
(exhale)
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Capturing the Spirit
February 4th, 2010The WIP I just finished writing is set in the punk-rock California of the mid-80’s and tells of the friendship between two teenage girls, their adventures and the events which changed both of their lives.
It is a book I have tried to write for ten years.
And the reason it took so long for me to get the voice, the narrative and the plot right is because the story was a very personal one for me.
When I began thinking about it initially, I had decided that it would be memoir.
Then I thought about narrative fiction (which is a clever way of being mostly autobiographical but not getting into trouble for telling a few ‘lies’ along the way).
I wrote in the third person.
I wrote it in a hard-boiled style. Dark, gritty, like Denis Johnson’s Jesus’s Son. Filled it with crime-ridden streets and hustlers.
But none of those fit. I think I was trying too hard and it wasn’t flowing. The writing seemed artificial to me, as if I was badly copying someone else. Always a mistake.
So I took a break and wrote some other books.
When we write we tend to draw from life and that’s good, but you can’t write directly from life because it doesn’t read well.
And when I came back to the story, I think I was perhaps a better writer, having gotten many more words under my belt, and having experienced what didn’t work, I was able to see what might.
The important thing for me was to capture the voice, the feeling of the time, the friendship, the spirit of the girls. And the best (and only) way to do that was to distance myself from the characters- because that’s what they were now- characters– and at the same time not pull any punches. I switched from 3rd to 1st because I wanted my narrator’s voice to be very clear. I wanted the reader to feel what she was feeling. I wanted to force myself to really dig in there, and strip away all the flowery language and reveal what was underneath. I wanted to remember.
This is a sad story filled with humor and character. One of the girls survives; one does not. But I also wanted to capture a time and a spirit that was life-changing for me. And a person who meant everything to me and who I lost.
This is not a book about Jo. But it might be a book about how I felt when I was 17, on my own, and racing to experience everything that was out there.
And it might be a book about friendship.
I hope so.
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Motivators
January 29th, 2010This is timely because yesterday I had one of those days when it seemed like every word I pulled from my brain was the wrong one. Simple scenes were impossible to describe, dialogue was forced and transitions moved sluggishly.
I sat before my beloved laptop and engaged in a struggle that lasted for seven hours and resulted in, maybe, a draw.
I think my brain had actually been replaced with sludge during the night and this impression was enforced by the fact that the day before I had had a really good day’s work, ripping through almost 150 pages of revision. At the end I actually leaned back in my chair and thought, ‘Wow, this is a well-told tale’ and something I wouldn’t be ashamed to show my agent (after a few more revisions and a session with my beta readers).
What a difference 24 hours and the removal of one’s brain can make.
Yesterday I was ready to delete the entire manuscript— 211 pages, 56,000 words, 6 months of continuous work.
Some of my writer friends refer to this as ‘total suckitis’. Yes, that is the professional terminology.
I didn’t experience it with my last WIP.
And this time I almost got through the whole novel without the creeping dread. Almost.
The only thing that saved the manuscript is that ‘total suckitis’ didn’t appear until the third to last chapter and there’s no way I’m trashing something that is mostly good.
For some reason that reminds me of Billy Crystal in “The Princess Bride” telling Inigo and Andre the Giant, that Cary Elwes is only mostly dead. *note- one of the greatest movies ever filmed.*
Here’s the clip if you haven’t seen it:Miracle Max/ The Princess Bride
There was a breath of life in Cary Elwes and there is a breath of life in my manuscript.
I tweeted about my suckage. Got a bunch of heart-warming tweets back from other writers who understand.
Their advice? Keep going. Write through it.
I’ll take that advice and add pizza for lunch, another cup of caffeine and a lot of chocolate tomorrow when I’ve taken hold of this chapter and whipped it into submission and moved forward, dominant once more.
What are your motivators? Friends? Other writers? A stubborn refusal to be cowed by a piece of paper and a bunch of words?
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More Wonderful YA
January 26th, 2010
(Yes—this is one of my little bookshelves; the one closest to my bed).
In keeping with the celebration of YA novels I seem to have going right now:
Kelly’s YAnnabe blog has gathered an almost definitive list of a bunch of unsung and overlooked YA books from a plethora of cool YA blog sites.
And E. Kristin Anderson over at her awesomely titled blog: The Hate-Mongering Tart has compiled an exhaustive list of great YA and some middle-grade as well.
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YA Inspiration
January 26th, 2010I formally state here that I co-opted this blog topic from fellow author Nova Ren Suma. You can find her original post here at her blog
Like me, she started as a middle grade witer and then found herself writing YA. Not only do I now write YA but it’s what I’m reading too. I always have but I find myself buying and borrowing almost all teen fiction these days.
Why? Because it’s on the whole well-written, often of the fantasy genre which I love, and perhaps because the characters are at a stage in their life when they are forming opinions and experiencing big emotions for the first time, I find the literature gripping and engrossing. First love, tragedy, sex, death. Big human experiences but by the time we are adults most of us have lived through these events and are somewhat jaded. I know it’s hard to accept but it’s true.
When we are younger, we are transported, staggered by the realization that the person we adore, also adores us. We kiss until our lips are bruised and tinged blue. We hold hands until our palms are sticky and warm. We feel things intensely.
As adults, everything is seen through the slight haze of prior experience. The emotions are not surface, immediate, exhilarating and NEW.
That’s why I love YA. It’s like the first time for everything.
Writing YA encourages me to delve into my feelings, my memories, my attitudes– and reading it, gives me a thrill.
So, here are some wonderfully written passages from various YA books I’ve read recently:
It was a very pale fire, almost colorless , as if water had learned how to burn. Liannan rose from the high flame the color of a fountain with her head bowed, like a goddess rising from the sea. The fire settled over the circle, lapping gently as the sea at low tide around them, and she stood before Nick and lifted her face to his. (THE DEMON’S LEXICON by Sarah Rees Brennan).
But back to the best day of my life, Disney, and my near-death experience. I know what you’re thinking: WTF? Who dies at Disney World? It’s full of spinning teacups and magical princesses and big-assed chipmunks walking around waving like it’s absolutley normal for jumbo-sized stuffed animals to come to life and pose for photo ops. Like, seriously. (GOING BOVINE by Libba Bray).
They found the gate open. Dry leaves blew across a small courtyard lined with doors. These, too, were open, showing small nuns’ cells with little in them except bedding. At the far end was a chapel. A table was covered with a cloth and a pewter cross. A single window was made of small panes of glass fastened together by lead strips. The panes were milky white except for one in the middle, a triangular shard of ruby red. It hung in the middle like a drop of blood, and the sun shone through it with a glory that made Jack catch his breath. (THE ISLANDS OF THE BLESSED by Nancy Farmer).
They had no TV but knew hundreds of songs—all of them in a language that Kizzy’s teachers had never even heard of—and they sat on rickety chairs in the yard and sang them together, their voices as plaintive as wolves’, howling at the moon. There were lots of hairy, blue-eyed uncles strumming old, beautiful guitars, and stout aunts who dried flowers to smoke in their pipes. Cousins were numerous. Small and swift, they were always aswirl in the women’s skirts or dodging the goat like wee, shrill matadors. (LIPS TOUCH THREE TIMES by Laini Taylor).
Deryn looked up and saw the medusa’s’ body alight with the sunrise, pulsing veins and arteries running like iridescent ivy through its translucent flesh. The tentacles drifted in the soft breezes around her, capturing pollen and insects and sucking them into the stomach sack above. (LEVIATHAN by Scott Westerfeld).
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping. (THE HUNGER GAMES by Suzanne Collins).
My mother used to tell me about the ocean. She said there was a place were there was nothing but water as far as you could see and that it was always moving, rushing towards you and then away. She once showed me a picture that she said was my great-great-grandmother standing in the ocean as a child. It has been years since. and the picture was lost to fire long ago, but I remember it, faded and worn. A little girl surrounded by nothingness. (THE FOREST OF HANDS AND TEETH by Carrie Ryan).
I was born with a light covering of fur. After three days it has all fallen off, but the damage was done. My mother stopped trusting my father because it was a family condition he had not told her about. One of many omissions and lies. My father is a liar and so am I. But I am going to stop. I have to stop. I will tell you my story and I will tell it straight. No lies. No omissions. That’s my promise. This time I truly mean it. (LIAR by Justine Larbalestier).
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Share too much?
January 25th, 2010I have a friend. Let’s call her Trixie. She is a truly talented visual artist, still struggling to make it, but really creative and ambitious. I have no doubt that she’ll be huge some day soon.
She’s working on a new project right now; just as I am finishing up one book and making notes on another one. We share our frustrations and joys, we support each other in our endeavors.
She is not one of my beta readers. I don’t look for criticism from her, just the emotional backing you get from another person who has also chosen to spend their life trying to do something non-traditional and difficult.
It doesn’t matter what she is working on, she has my whole-hearted support.
All of us need someone like this, someone who urges you on, and hoists you up.
Lately though Trixie has started to give me her opinions. Let me reiterate, she is not a beta reader.I have three other lovely, constructive and tough people who fulfill that position for me. She is not my agent and she is not my editor. She is my friend.
I’ve just finished my first draft of FIERCE. This is something I have tried to write in many different ways over the last eight or nine years. In the original concept, one of the MC was going to commit suicide. It became clear to me, as I wrote, that it didn’t make sense anymore. But an overdose, that did make sense. Trixie disagrees vehemently (although she has not read any of the draft). I feel as if I have disappointed her somehow, and it makes me angry.
She then begged me to tell her about my next WIP, something I have outlined only and been hugging to my chest, examining it occasionally and feeling that thrill you get when you have a new idea. I am awful at summing up my plots esp. when I have not put pen to paper yet. But she begged, so I told her.
There was silence. She felt that it (an urban fantasy) was too unlike my dystopian YA LUCKY, and the coming of age novel I just finished.
Although she knows nothing about it really, I was left feeling as if something valuable had been taken away from me. The excitement of the unknown when all you have is the spark of an idea, a really great character and a good story. It’s like losing a treat in store.
I know that many (most) writers don’t share any of their works in progress. They don’t even talk about what they are doing or planning. They keep quiet throughout those long months until they have something that is close to their ideal and then they show it to only a few trusted people.
It’s hard not to announce in advance. Writing is solitary. You wonder what people think you’re doing at all hours, for so many months (or years), but actually most of them don’t notice or care. As far as they’re concerned you seclude yourself for a while and then emerge, cobweb- covered and thinner, with a sheaf of papers clutched in your fist. And they are happy to see you. But unless they themselves are writers, no one much marvels at the process of it.
Do you share? Or do you close your shell around yourself and that tiny grain of sand?
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It crawled from beneath the slush pile
January 22nd, 2010There was an article recently (in the Guardian/UK I think though I might just be pulling that out of my ear) which I can no longer find. Such is the impermanence and permanence of the internet. It’s there forever but you have to be able to find it first.
Hey, it’s sort of of like the whole internet is like one big giant slushpile!
And that segues very well into my blog post, doesn’t it?
Anyway this article basically said that editors (or rather that is, their interns) weren’t going to roll up their sleeves, yank on their hip-waders and go hunting in the slush any longer. One major house which was curtailing what must surely be soul-dampening work (otherwise why would interns have to do it?) had, in their last forty years or so, only found 1 manuscript worthy of being rescued. Don’t quote me on the exact numbers, just believe that it was staggering.
If you add up the hours it took someone to wrote it, the hours it took someone to read it (or a fraction of it), understanding how important it is to polish your work until it can be polished no more, creating a succinct and captivating cover letter, becomes glaringly obvious. But since the slushpile is going the way of the dinosaur (at least as far as the large publishers are concerned) all that is moot.
However, I am going to tell you something (not that the Jo Treggiari experience should be held up as some glossy example.) but my first book was pulled out of the slushpile. Not by some weary intern at Random House with papercuts all over her fingers, but by an intern nonetheless, and from a real life pile de slush (they were a Montreal based publisher so everything has a french name).
I have even viewed the heap de slushe myself on a visit I took up to meet with my editor last summer. They were housed on the top floors of a gorgeous Victorian right on the main boulevard (with lots of le parking), and the slushal area was on the very top floor (up a rather steep flight of stairs), and within the room was an energetic and naturally buoyant intern and a towering stack of padded envelopes. Really, they tottered. If they’d fallen, she might have been crushed. And this was a small publisher
I don’t know how on earth my wee manuscript was chosen. What made it raise its wee head above the pile, but it did and the only reason can have been 1) my query letter and 2) my first few pages.
Everything I learned about publishing I learned from the internet and a few invaluable reference books (Writer’s Digest, Writer’s Market, The Guide to Literary Agents, The Children’s Writer’s & Illustrator’s Market), so go forth and educate yourselves and submit.
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Jo’s Big Big News (at least I think so!)
January 19th, 2010This is….
the Scholastic Building in New York City. Note how imposing, how stately, how big.
Doesn’t it appear to be stuffed full of books? Of editors and writers? Ooh. Ahhhhhh.
Ok, now here is a sentence from Publisher’s Lunch (the daily publishing industry newsletter which I subscribe to and whose deal blurbs I scrutinize and decipher. PL tells you everything that’s happening in the book world and who it is happening to). Ahem….
Jo Treggiari’s LUCKY, in which a teenage girl struggles to survive in a post-apocalyptic New York City, to Scholastic, in a nice deal, by Garrett Hicks at Will Entertainment
(Deep breath) (A lot of yelling)
Suffice it to say that I am very excited and happy. This is how I feel:
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Agents: love ‘em and love ‘em
January 17th, 2010 There are probably more blogs and comments dedicated to the subject of agents than there are to any other discussion topic fundamental to publishing and writer, but I thought some people might be interested in hearing about my own journey.
I have directly experienced three different scenarios in my (so-called) life as a published writer.
Scenario the first:(About four years ago)
I wrote a silly but somewhat charming children’s fantasy book and probably mostly due to timing (HP was still the hottest thing out there) than any unusual talent acquired an agent after only querying two. Not only that but I am pretty sure that I did not query correctly. I believe I just stuffed the manuscript into an envelope and sent it with a note saying ‘hope you enjoy it and look forward to hearing from you.”
I was naive and perhaps a little cocky, and maybe deluded.
In hindsight, I would definitely say yes, deluded.
I got a phone call from fabulous NY agent saying she wished to represent me and we got to work revising the book. Then she sent it out to all the major publishers and we waited for the clamor to arise. The auction thing didn’t happen. In hindsight, once again, I can’t believe that I had honestly expected it would go to auction. But remember- cocky and deluded.
Many rejections followed (but nice informative and helpful rejections from big editors). The kind every writer should be ecstatic to receive. I didn’t feel that way then, every rejection was a stab in the heart, but I sure do now. And an agent will get you a personal rejection often crammed full of insight and ways in which you can make your manuscript better. This sounds facetious but I mean it in a good way. Yay, agents!
Eventually we got a nibble accompanied by a lengthy editorial letter. And I began to wrap my head around the fact that I would have to completely revise the book if I wanted a chance at publication.
It was at this point that my lovely agent told me she was giving up the agenting and moving away. (Eventually she ended up doing freelance editing which is the perfect career choice for her although she is much missed as an agent.) The editor who had nibbled also changed publishers, and switched focus leaving my manuscript nowhere which brings us to:
Scenario the second:
Remember the cocky thing? Still cocky, I decided to forge ahead without an agent. After all I had come close with big editor at big publisher, I was willing to finish my revision, how hard could it be???????
I bought a stack of reference books and started reading through them pencilling in notes next to every publisher, imprint, and indie specializing in children’s fiction. This took many months. At the end of it I had a long list of editors and a lot of scrawled post-it notes.
I submitted to all of them, making sure I had a good 1 page cover letter and a polished manuscript.
Once I’d been rejected by pretty much every small and large publisher in America, I took a step back and decided that perhaps I should explore foreign agents. I don’t know what I was thinking exactly or why I didn’t query some american agents. After all, only two of them had ever heard of me… I suppose it was simply that I thought I could get a british agent (England being my birthplace and the birthplace of most of the authors who inspired me), and they could sell the book in the UK, making it much easier afterwards to secure an american publisher. It may just have been that I felt that I had exhausted all possibilities here in the States.
A couple more nibbles including one agent in Australia who was about to give birth and was unfortunately going on hiatus almost immediately, but nothing coalesced. (side note- my darling mother who lives in Oxford discovered a literary agency upstairs from her dentist’s office and hand-delivered a copy of the manuscript telling them a) that I was very talented and b) that she was my mother and if it made it easier for them they could contact her and she would pass on any messages. The agent? David Fickling. Oh the mortification!
Where oh where could I try next? Remember all of this so far had taken me about 8 months of research and an ungodly amount of money in postage, envelopes and printer ink.
I cast my gaze northwards. CANADA. After yet more research I sent a few packages out to few publishers. I had just about given up when a fellow writer friend pointed me to a publisher’s website requesting new work from new authors. I sent the book in and a month or so later received an email asking to buy the book. Much revision (because it turned out the manuscript was nowhere ready) and about 9 months later – rushed in order to be on shelves for Christmas- my first book was published. Hurray! Let’s skip ahead a couple of years, shall we…. to
Scenario the third Not much happening. The book came out, got pretty good reviews, sold a little. But not enough for the sequels to follow. (Lesson #666- when things deteriorate between an editor and an author, it’s nice to have an agent play intermediary).
I had a book to my name but it counted for almost nothing. The next thing is I had to put all that behind me, shelve the two follow-up manuscripts I had written and force myself to look forward instead of back. It’s very hard to move away from something you have invested so much time in, but eventually I did it.
First I had to think of something new.
That took months.
Then I had to write it. Ditto. Although actually, once I had fixed on the story I wanted to tell and the character I wanted to tell it about, I had a good draft completed in about 6 months. Then beta readers, revision and polish and I was ready to query. Yup, after endless letters to publishing houses and editors and the sensation of banging my head against countless doors, I was ready to begin the hunt for an agent. Only to find that in the last four years, much had changed in the publishing world. Firstly most major houses wouldn’t even look at something that was unagented. Secondly agents were narrowing their lists and in many ways it was harder to sign with an agent than with a publisher.Things had gotten very tight, my friends.
However I am an optimistic sort of a person (or maybe just someone who likes to bash their head repeatedly against walls) and I had my reference books, the internet and helpful blogs like the Guide to Literary Agents, and I had a book that I was very excited about. After a lot of research and much lurking around agent blogs, I made a list of 13 possibles. 13 because my manuscript was called LUCKY, and because I am a superstitious person. Serendipity and that!
My contact list by this time was pretty good because it was well-researched and some of the agents on it had previously rejected me for something else I’d written. I cannot emphasize enough how precious a personal rejection is, and how important it is to look past the rejection and see it as constructive and valuable criticism and the beginning of a possible relationship (if you continue working hard and submitting new work.) I got a great response and a high percentage of requests for partial and full manuscripts. One agent who had kindly rejected my prior manuscript responded very quickly to the query. I sent him the full and within 2 days he had responded again, saying he would like to represent me. He also impressed me by comparing LUCKY to my other manuscript (which he actually recalled in detail) and saying nice things. He didn’t pressure me, gave me contact addresses for some of his other writers and told me to take my time. I did, about a week- because I am a chastened and cautious person now, but I pretty much knew from the first phone call that I had found the right person to represent me. I think that in our headlong quest for an agent, we sometimes forget that it should be about the right fit, rather than the first person who makes an offer. A week later I signed with him.
So all’s well, etc…but in fact a rollercoaster of a journey spread over a few tumultuous years. And it’s not over yet, although I feel much easier about it knowing that I am moving ahead with someone else in my corner.
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Genre-hopping
January 15th, 2010
My first published book was a middle grade fantasy. It’s called “The Curious Misadventures of Feltus Ovalton” and you can look it up if you want. It looks like this:
I was contracted to do a series of at least 2. I wrote 3. Only one came out for various reasons which I will not revisit here. I would have been perfectly happy to write middle-grade fantasy for a long time. I love to read it and I love to write it, but it was not to be. After the 2nd and 3rd manuscripts ended up gathering dust in a drawer…(yes in my house it is possible to gather dust inside furniture) I wrote an adult book. But half-heartedly. I wanted to continue writing for children but I was temporarily out of ideas and I was having a hard time letting Feltus go.
“If I can’t write about Feltus then I won’t write about anyone!” I declared, pounding my fists against the floor.
Actually I subsided into a lengthy period of ‘feeling sorry for myself”.
When I eventually emerged, I had a new character and a new idea.
But she was a girl. She was 17 years old. And it wasn’t fantasy in the strictest definition of the term.
Ok, fine. I’m an imaginative person and this was the story and character that came to me.
I love her easily as much as I love Feltus.
And she has been good to me beyond my wildest dreams. (More on that later!)
But now I write YA.
If good things happen with this newest manuscript, will I have to continue to write YA? It’s ok because the ideas rattling around in my head at this moment are two sequels and another YA book with a female MC and some magic.
But what if I wanted to go back to middle-grade?
While I continue to frolic around in obscurity, can I hop from genre to genre without anyone caring? Are the 12 year olds who read Feltus going to be mad that I’m writing girl books now? *Actually some of the boys weren’t pleased.
Does my agent want me to stay inside my pigeon hole? (Yes I’ll ask him.)
And what happens if my YA book explodes onto the scene like a meteor of literary awesomness? Yeah I know I’m jumping the gun, but what if??!!
Then will I be encouraged to write about that same character until I’m forced to kill her off like Sherlock Holmes or Stephen King’s tormented author in Misery?
All my favorite children’s lit authors (Lois Lowry, Ursula K. LeGuin, Suzanne Collins, Philip Pullman) skip around, writing a coming of age here, a fantasy there, perhaps a book in prose…The common thread? That they wrote each book. Nothing more than that.
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SHUGDAFRAGDA @*^!*&% Aargh….
January 14th, 2010
Here is a rendition of “The Scream” by my son Milo. He is enthralled with the painting and I’m not sure why but it seemed an apt illustration for the post.
Notwithstanding fine writerly folk like Marshall Buckley (who is in fact two fine writerly folk) and the heart attack he(they) almost caused me by suggesting that producing 10,000 words a day kept you in fine writing trim, my usual method of achieving at least 1000 words per day is not working for me right now
Too many interruptions.
Also I’m at the end of the book and there aren’t that many words left to write. This is, of course, giving me what amounts to writer’s block.
2 things:
I know that doesn’t make sense. Why seize up when i’m almost done?
And secondly, don’t tell me that writer’s block doesn’t exist. I know this too. Or at least I don’t want to get into that argument again.
So then it’s something else which shall remain nameless because it’s simply awful.
Anyway, what I’ve decided to do is throw the whole word per diem thing out the window and get this next chapter done.
I will sit here tonight after the Lucy Factor has gone to sleep and I will finish this bloody chapter.
This I vow. (And since I’ve announced it her, I have to do it.)
Tomorrow I will complete the next one and then the next and at that point I should be done.
Oh and re. Marshall Buckley, he(they) meant ’steps’ not words, and you can follow his (their) other witticisms on twitter @marshallbuckley and on their website www.marshallbuckley
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Brain=Porridge
January 13th, 2010This is how I feel today.
Here are some visual aids to assist you.
My Brain (well not actually mine but a comparable one, although I think mine might be larger and a lovely shade of pink).
My Brain (after spending the morning in fruitless pursuit of a few uninterrupted moments).
They’re just words. I know lots of them. I string enough of them together and voila- a book!
How hard can it be?
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