Bibliography V

“Prince Lestat”— Anne Rice

Loved it! But, of course, I love Lestat. The self-proclaimed James Bond of vampires, he is likely more celebrated than Dracula … though he hasn’t had the same amount of screen time. Something to do with copyright law, no doubt. And just as well. What screen versions I’ve seen have fallen far short of my imagination. Some things are better left on the page. One might also suspect the author, in this case, of falling back on her most famous hero to resurrect a flagging career, but I tend to think that the character simply had something more to say. The scribe merely answered the call.

That is, after all, what we writers do.

For the longest time, I revered the way Anne Rice did it, too. Her style was my blueprint. I aspired to write those deeply lush and sensual descriptions myself. I perceived her work as the most meticulously cut-and-polished jewels: richly-hued, multi-faceted, artfully displayed, and absolutely bedazzling to the mind’s eye. I swore to write as well as Anne Rice or die trying.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I began this read in luscious anticipation and discovered myself editing the copy as I went along! Make no mistake: the story is riveting, the possibilities purely believable, the characters drawn in lovingly minute detail, the scenery meticulously described … but the writing itself runs rough, seeming more like an initial draft than a satiny smooth final version. I found myself making mental corrections when I should have been slipping into a world I remember as flawlessly buffed and burnished. I emerged thinking—arrogantly, perhaps?—that I could have done a better job with this absolutely wonderful story!

Which begs the question: which is more important, the story or the telling? Does a good writer make a half-baked story work? Or does a good story make a half-baked writer look competent? I guess either option is true, depending as much on the reader as any plot portent or turn with a phrase. I consider myself—arrogantly, perhaps?—to be a fairly high level reader, which is why I’m resisting the reading assignment from hell (blog post TBD), and because I love wordplay as much as I do a vivid character or an intriguing storyline, I demand a lot from my authors. Chuck Wendig advises all writers to read good books and bad books, one to inspire humility and the other to inspire confidence. Prince Lestat is a damned good story. The writing may even meet today’s appalling standard. It’s just not up to my memory of Anne Rice’s standard, and that makes it a little disappointing.

To assure myself that I have not misremembered her earlier skill, I am revisiting The Tale of the Body Thief, which also happens to be my favourite of the Lestat stories. And, no, I have not misremembered. I am sitting with him at the café, I am laughing out loud at his ongoing angst with Louis, I am seeing the sights and smelling the scents and shivering in the snow with no internal editor to distract me from the magic of the tale. So what gives? Did the author get lazy? Did she become too famous to require an editor? Is the editor intimidated by her fame? A fan will pick up the book no matter what the critics say, which is as it should be, and a fan will make up his/her own mind as to whether or not the money/time was wasted. For myself, it absolutely was not. I learned a lot from this book, even more than the future of the Rice vampires or the fate of their prince. I learned a little more about myself, about my craft, and about how important it is for a writer to keep reading.

Now, about that assignment from hell …

Motivation

It’s hard to write about vampires while prepping for Christmas. I know, it’s only November, but some things need to be done before the twelfth month else I get so far behind I want to hang myself with the tree lights come the holidays. My creativity is far from suffering—the cards are almost done! Ter casually suggested this year’s theme (“socks”—you can free your elf but she’ll never get over it) and after a couple of days mulling over the potential, I was off to the races. It’s always fun once I get started, but having a theme this early is rare. The Ocean Room looks like … well, like the picture introducing this post: less a living room than an artist’s studio.

So, in the meantime, my vampires are in limbo. The Calista story is almost done; I think there’s one more scene before she’s told all she can tell. After that, back to Black, another one that’s almost done. I was over at terribleminds.com the other day and hit another brilliant post about how Chuck gets past the hiccups at one-third, halfway and two-thirds into a project. Those are the hotspots, what I’ve long called the “150 page speed bump” where I get hung up and question a) what I’m doing, b) why I’m doing it and c) if I should even be trying to do it. Creativity is a magical thing, but it’s also fraught with mental landmines designed to sabotage what I was so excited about when I started.

Naturally, now I can’t find his post to link it –but there was also a dandy about motivation that I found extremely helpful, and not only because I already know half of it. It’s a few suggestions to help a writer struggling with the strange paradox of wanting to write while not wanting to write.

Since I can write about doughnuts, you’d think motivation wouldn’t be an issue. So for now, I’m using Christmas as an excuse for avoiding my works in progress and I’m totally good with it.

Timely Advice

It never fails. Chuck Wendig’s blog is hardly a daily stop on my net-surfing routine, but when I am prompted to drop by www.terribleminds.com, I invariably happen upon advice that pertains to something I’ve been pondering.

Case in point: my ongoing struggle with finding/making time to write. It’s not that I am short of ideas – to the contrary, I’m marinating a couple of beauties as I type, along with trying to complete “Black in Back” and redirecting the novel that’s fallen so far off course I’ll need a Hummer and a hydraulic winch to get it back on the road. I like to blame my day job for much of my frustration. “If I had more time …” “If I didn’t have to work …” “If I could get some momentum …” yaddayaddayadda … Yup, that bi-weekly paycheque and promise of a pension has sure jammed a stick in my creative spokes, but what is a writer to do when writing doesn’t pay the bills?

Not that I was openly musing on the matter yesterday. I had a few minutes and no one else is blogging right now – George Martin is travelling the globe, Erin Morgenstern has taken August off, and Nic has been so quiet that I fear she’s succumbed to the same demon that dogs me: a day job that sucks up your will to do anything more than crash with a bag of chips in front of the TV every night. So, with a few minutes between crises yesterday, I dropped over to Chuck’s place and discovered this post by guest blogger Tom Pollock, entitled “Writing Around a Day Job”.

Are you kidding me????? Well, of course not; lots of people are stuck doing what they must instead of what they’d rather, but I found hope in these four simple points:

Plan your time. He writes Monday and Wednesday nights, and during the day on Sunday. I’m supposed to write on Sunday, but have given up getting momentum on one day a week. That means I’ve almost given up, period.

Stick to your plan. I repeat, he writes Monday and Wednesday nights and during the day on Sunday. Invitations to socialize are politely declined or alternative dates suggested. He writes for eight hours a week; so could I, if I follow his example with two weeknights and my regular Sunday.

Don’t let writing turn you into an asshole. I fear Ter could address this item more objectively than I can. While a scheduled routine will protect your writing from your life, it can also protect your life from your writing. Pollard wisely says, “You won’t actually get any more done if you’re worrying about how you’ve fucked up all the human connections in your life. The fact that writing is not the a1 priority in your life does not mean you won’t get it done.” He goes on to say, “Prioritize the people. They’re more important.” So are Flyer games and Sleepy Hollow.

And finally … Enjoy it. Lately, I haven’t. Lately, it’s been work. Lately, I’ve been so frustrated that I want nothing to do with it, and that’s a bad, bad sign.

So, how do I get it back? Can I build and sustain momentum with a few extra hours on a couple of strategically-spaced weeknights? Can I shed the shackles and rediscover the joy in blasting out as much as I can, ignoring both time and my inner editor? And can I do it without alienating the people who mean more to me than writing ever will?

My two-week vacation starts on the 25th. It’s easy to write full time on vacation, especially when I’m on to something new and shiny, so the test will come after I go back to … the Day Job.

Write or Die

Cook Street Moka House - Home of the Mythical Asian Mist

No Asian Mist today, alas. A sweet milky drink a day for the past week has weakened my lactose resistance, so I’ve decided to lay off the lattes for a bit, at least until my bout of “milk gout” dissipates. I did, however, push my afflicted knee to indulge in my flex-Friday flânerie and got some cool pictures to support future writing exercises. It also gave me a subject for today’s “live” post.

Almost everyone who learns that I am a writer will ask me: “Are you sending anything out?” as in, “Are you trying to get published?” Well, since disqualifying for an online writing competition because the piece I planned to enter was originally posted here at CR, my pat reply is now, “I write a blog, so technically, I am published.” The other day a co-worker asked “the question” and this time, the truth popped out.

I said, “I don’t care about getting published. I write because I’ll die if I don’t.”

There’s a great scene in the film Anonymous where the Earl of Oxford’s wife discovers he’s been writing again and goes slightly ballistic because everyone knows that writers are possessed of the Devil. The Earl’s response is a scary truth for any artistic spirit: the voices inside will drive him mad if he continues to ignore them.

I was also reminded of J. C. Hutchins’ recent post over at terribleminds.com, where he gives all sorts of reasons why unfinished projects can stack up (I’ve got a bunch of the darned things), but counsels against abandoning any of them. Even if a piece languishes for years, eventually it will find its way back to the spotlight. I was vexed with myself because “Black in Back” has stalled, so remembering that advice helped me to move on.

Moving on today means going back to the unfinished novel. Reijo’s romance has been in limbo for so long that there’s dust on the half-finished hard copy. That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned it; in fact, the voices have begun whispering again and this weekend, I’ve decided to ramp it up once more. I might drop it again next week, but as long as I’m writing something, I’ll still be alive.

The Dark Side

On the subject of Chuck Wendig, he also has a character called Black—Miriam Black, to be precise. A psychic who can tell when, where and how you are going to die just by touching your hand. I discovered her after reading JC Hutchins’ guest post the other day. Curious, I hopped on over to amazon.com and took a look inside the first book (there are three). I read the sample and now I’m intrigued. “Hooked” is pushing it this early on, but comparing a good urban fantasy to crack on paper isn’t far off the mark where I’m concerned. Rob Thurman has nailed it with Cal Leandros. Jim Butcher did it with Harry Dresden, though so far I’ve only read the piece he wrote for Dangerous Women. Simon R. Green created the Nightside, a city neighbourhood where it’s always three in the morning and the freaks never go home to bed. Laurell K. Hamilton started me off with her Anita Blake series … though I gave up on Anita after Incubus Dreams—nine books in and the series turned from a fun ride to pretty well raw porn. I like sex, but by then Anita was getting it on with everyone for no discernible reason, and quite frankly, after she chose Jean-Claude the vampire over Richard the werewolf, I washed my hands of her. I didn’t even bother with the Merry Gentry series because I saw it going a similar route. Most recently, Rachel Caine’s Weather Warden series had me reading on the limo. Happily, I’m not even halfway through that run and it makes for good summer reading. Joanne Baldwin is a bit like Stephanie Plum with superpowers.

Anyway, I’m planning an attack on Russell Books in search of Blackbirds, to see if Chuck’s Miriam can give my Ariel a run in the Whose Black is Blacker? department. If I go back for the follow up, I’ll know.

Paging Inspiration

Still no spike on the Inspir-O-Meter. My online haunts have been quiet, too. I visit a few blogs almost daily and this past week, no one has been posting much of anything. Either everyone is writing for real or life in general has distracted them. It happens—the latter more often than the former, I fear, but there you go. One simply has to roll with it. At least I’m not climbing the walls or fretting my innards to fiddlestrings over not knowing what to do next. My attitude adjustment is proceeding nicely in that regard.

When none of my regulars are around, I swing over to see what Chuck Wendig is saying at www.terribleminds.com. Earlier this week, he posted a lengthy dissertation (one might call it a diatribe) about the pros/cons of self-publishing which was interesting but not terribly helpful in that my head ain’t there at present; however, on Wednesday he featured a guest blogger named JC Hutchins who wrote about writing in a way that resonated like an Oriental gong.

Writing will drive you crazy. By the same token, stay with it, do not give up, and for the sake of all that is holy, do not abandon an idea. Put it on hold if you must. It might be years before you can pick it up again, but pick—it—up. It was an awesome post (read it here) that struck me for a reason:

Reijo.

I have longed to write a romance for Reijo since 2005. He is easily the most poetic character I have ever met, more so than Julian because Reijo is truly the pristine white knight of yore. In my hands, of course, he has suffered mightily; he’s not near as pure as he was when he started, but he’s been through the mill and if anyone deserves a happy ending, it’s him. After six volumes in the Fixed Fire series, book 7 is it. Reijo’s happy ending, the story I waited half a decade to write.

I finally started it in 2011. Started it and stopped it, moved house, started it again in 2012, moved house again, stopped it again, got distracted by Sian, Julian, Comfortable Rebellion, Jake and, most recently, Shade. I’ve been sitting on a half-written novel for going on three years, a novel I have dreamed of writing yet appear to have done everything in my power to avoid completing. In truth, the entire series got out of control; it took over my life in 2002 and my life has been fighting to reclaim me ever since. It’s tough being the bone in a tug of war, I’ll tell you, and while this sounds a lot like whining … well, it is. I think it’s just dawned on me that I want to pick up Reijo’s romance and finish it before I am distracted by anything else. I can entertain new ideas and stash away scenes and little conversations for future reference, but he must be my priority.

So get on it, Ru. Write Reijo’s happy ending. Really. You know his world better than your own; how hard can it be?

Pick—it—up.

Getting to Know You

During a mindless moment at the office last week, I clicked over to Chuck Wendig’s blog and discovered a lengthy post on character development. It was an informative and somewhat entertaining read (I find him unnecessarily crude, but his message often rings true), especially because I am currently disentangling Cristal from Shade and trying to get a handle on each of their stories. Nicole is also struggling with the voices of her latest fiction, so something must be in the literary collective consciousness to have inspired Chuck’s piece on characters.

As usual, I agree with some of what he says and disagree with the rest. Personally, writing is more about what feels good than what the experts advise. Creativity doesn’t have rules – or it shouldn’t. The business side insists on them, however, and that’s as frustrating as a natural talent being critiqued by an arts degree. I know someone who is a published writer in the real world, and she spends a lot of time adhering to editors, agents and pollsters to get where she wants to go. I envy her in some ways, respect her in all ways, and honestly wish her the greatest success – which I believe she will eventually have because she works so diligently at it. But I wonder, where in the process does she have any fun?

I digress. Back to character development. For me, a new character is like meeting a stranger. Either you click or you don’t. If you don’t click, then the relationship won’t work and you should each seek satisfaction with someone else. I cannot conjure a character from thin air. To me, that’s like building a robot – you’ll have the physical details in place and maybe some personality programmed into it, but at the deepest level, he will only ever be two-dimensional. Great for a formulaic genre, but not for me. I want feeling. I want emotion, conflict and drama. I want to bleed with my characters. I want to soar with them, love with them, hate with them, fight with them, die with them, give birth with them. I want to be scared with them, of them, and for them. I can’t do that with a checklist. Nope, characters come to me fully-formed and full of mystery. They know who and what they are. My job – my pleasure – is to discover who and what they are as I write about them. It’s slower than hammering out the top ten qualities and manipulating them into situations, but I prefer it despite my whining at how little I get done in a day.

Shade began as a cheerful sort, a bit mischievous and a lot mysterious – when Cristal was telling the story. When I switched to his point of view, I got a completely different take on him, and that’s how I knew he and she actually feature in two different stories. Now that I’ve split them up, she is still befuddled by a mischievous mystery man, and Shade is free to tell his different, darker tale. I didn’t know any of this when I started my angel story all those weeks ago. I learned it as I wrote, first about her, then about him. The secondary characters are introduced by the main. I write what I see and hear. I write what I am told, and if I have a question, I ask the character. What happened then? Why did you—? Who said—? Sometimes the answer surprises me, but I must trust that it’s accurate.

Only one character has ever outright lied to me. For many many years, I believed something that everyone else in the story had to believe, and that one character was responsible for duping us all. Her argument? “The scribe had to be deceived lest the secret be imperiled.” In short, I’m the weakest link!

Insulting as it is, the revelation presents grand potential for a new story down the road … when I am ready to let someone die.

Some stories I don’t want to tell.

There might be something to the cardboard cutout character after all.

Art is Made

I occasionally drop into Chuck Wendig’s blog over at www.terribleminds.com; he’s a novelist, screenwriter, and author with whose work I am completely unfamiliar, but one day Erin Morgenstern mentioned one of his posts and I clicked on the link. I don’t recall the subject at the time, but I wound up adding him to my Favourites and once in a while, I am prompted to visit.

A few weeks ago, I discovered Chuck’s take on a debate over “art happens” versus “art is made”. (see it here). I guess many people (probably critics or other “experts” on creativity who think they are but are not, in fact, themselves creative) believe that art simply happens. Once upon a time, I might have agreed with that, but Mr. Wendig argued so colourfully to the contrary that I had to ponder it before making up my mind for sure. 

 

His point is that inspiration happens and from that art is made. It’s gratifying when the flow is smooth and time ceases to exist in its throes, but making art is work. It takes thought and effort to get that inspired notion off the ground. It’s totally worth it, of course, but art does not spontaneously happen. The magic is in the idea: where it comes from, what inspires it, and how it manifests. I admit, I’m more in love with dreaming than doing. I envision scenes and hear conversations all the time. Getting around to transcribing them, however … boy, I can expend more energy avoiding the computer than it would take me to do the work. 

 

True, if you love what you’re doing, then it isn’t work – and I love to write. Most of the time. Sometimes it’s just too darned hard.