writing

There is a trend in the publishing industry to get fiction authors to keep blogs. The publishers have seen how blogs allow authors to connect with audiences in a way that was previously impossible. That connection is an incredible marketing tool. It can be used to create enormous loyalty in readers and to fuel buzz about a particular author’s work. There’s just one problem. While all bloggers are writers, not all writers are bloggers.

Blogging is much closer to newspaper column writing than it is to novel writing. For a blog you have to come up with subject after subject and spin it into something that will interest people all within a few short paragraphs. A novel is the slow development of characters and plot over hundreds of a pages. A blog is like improvisational dancing in public. A novel is like practicing for painful hours in private for a large public performance. It puzzles me that publishers, and the world at large, should assume that a person who is good at novels would therefore be good at keeping a blog.

Of course publishers have always asked authors to do uncomfortable things in the name of marketing. Many writers have learned with dismay that being an author means public appearances and speeches and self promotion as well as writing books. The imposition of blog writing is just another manifestation of this same practice.

I both love and dislike the fact that more authors are being pressured into keeping blogs. I love the chance I get to interact with the authors, to get glimpses into their lives. I dislike sensing the discomfort some of these same authors as they have to learn a new medium with a live audience. As a blogger I hope that some of the writers grow into these imposed blogs and begin to love maintaining them as much as I have loved maintaining mine.

Sometimes I just need words. Often the words I need are informational. I need to know what things are scheduled and how they will all work. Other times I need words that are motivational. They help me to get myself moving and make myself better. Sometimes I need kind words to soothe my spirt and make me feel better. I need words of fiction to take me new places and show me new thoughts. There are even times when I need hard words that scold me and show me where I’ve gone wrong so that I can do things differently another time. Sometimes the words I need come with music. Sometimes they come in print. But the need-for-words that makes me a writer is the need for my own words. I need words to take my thoughts and give them shape. Thoughts are so slippery that they’ll be gone if I don’t pin them down. Given shape, thoughts can be useful. I need my words to express the themes inside my head. Few things give me greater joy than finding exactly the right words to wrap around my meanings.

Today I felt like writing. Then I realized that I was afraid to start. I was afraid I’d get seized by the story and neglect the other important things that I finally seem to be bringing under control. It is all starting to balance and I was afraid to try to fit writing back in. I did it anyway because it needs to fit. As usual the process of writing eased my spirit. (Except for the part where I jiggled the plug on my laptop twice and the machine restarted itself. I really need to get a new battery for this thing.) The writing did steal almost two hours, but it isn’t taking over my life. So that’s good.

The rest of the day was spent on Things Which Need Done. It was a very effective day. I should probably get enough sleep more often.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1

I can not do everything all at once, no matter how much I might like to. I only have space for two or three large things in my life at one time. Howard and the kids always get first priority. Housekeeping, Schlock work, and writing rotate through the large slots I have left. Other smaller things fit into the gaps between the big ones. Lately, it has been all I could do to get the Schlock work done while still meeting the emotional/physical needs of my family. I can’t berate myself for this because I was honestly working at capacity. But I am left with stories I haven’t touched in three weeks and a house in dire need of organization.

I’ve always worked under the theory that if I put the most important things first, then I’ll be satisfied with myself. I believe this to be true. But how do I decide what is most important? How do I decide if it is the right season for a particular pursuit? And what if the thing I want the most, is less important than the other things?

Howard and the kids come first. Always. If they need me everything else gets dropped.

The work I do on the Schlock books is critical. The books would not get mailed if I did not handle it. This most recent book would not exist at all if I had not stepped in to do some of the layout work. For the next book I’ll be doing all of the layout work. Since the books pay our bills, this work is really important. Usually there are gaps in the busy times for book work, but we need to put out the next book fast. We’re hoping to have it out in February. This means that for the next several months I’ll be working on schlock stuff daily. I enjoy working on Schlock. I love being able to make a tangible contribution to maintaining this lifestyle that we love. But all the work on Schlock books necessarily displaces other things and for the next few months it is high priority.

Housework seems like it can be neglected, that it doesn’t have to be a high priority. Unfortunately neglecting the housework quickly results in chaos. When our house is a mess we are all more cranky and less able to do other things. Keeping the house clean enables everything else and so I have to get it done. What I haven’t been doing well, is leveraging the kids against this task. This isn’t just my job, this belongs to us all. I just need to figure out how to get them to help with a minimum energy expenditure from me.

In the end, this post is really about the lack of writing in my life lately. I’ve been blogging, but not writing fiction. I haven’t been writing because when I look logically at the things which I need to do, writing gets pushed so low on the importance scale that there is no time left for it. After all, my writing does not contribute to the running of the household. In fact usually the writing is done at the expense of something else which does directly contribute. I have so many things in my life, that logic tells me I should put the writing on hold for awhile longer. It can wait. …Only I don’t want it to wait. It is the one thing in my life that is truly mine. My writing is not important to the household, but it is important to me. It grieves me to see it languish.

As a member of the household, my dreams and goals and aspirations should have importance. As the household manager I know that my things are the easiest to interrupt or put on hold. My desire to write is constantly weighed against the needs of Howard and the kids. (They always come first, remember.) So when I have a space of time, I have to decide whether dishes or writing is more important. I am going to have few spaces in the next 6 months. I wonder if I will get any writing done at all. I want to. I want to send my words out where they can affect the lives of others. But I am left wondering how my words can possibly be good enough to do that, when they are consistently labelled as less important than doing the dishes.

(Note: All the devaluation of my writing is happening inside my own head. Howard and the kids all believe in it and support it fully.)

For every thing there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven.

Am I trying to make it the season for me to be an author when it is not so? Is writing fiction even the correct use for the gifts I have been given? I’ve been given so much. The only way to repay that, is to do what I can to make the world a better place. Am I going about it the way that I should be? Or perhaps I’m all at sea because I am supposed to be writing and I haven’t been. I like that answer. I want that one to be true. But I am cautious to accept it, precisely because my longing for it to be true is so strong.

Times and Seasons

Ebbs and Flows

I’ve had fallow months before, times when I did not write. Usually they are followed by a burst of creative energy where the writing pushes other things aside. I think I’m about due for that. Then all this fretting will be for naught.

From 1994 until 1999 Howard and I ran a small record production business. We spent lots of time and energy helping record 5 or 6 CDs full of truly beautiful music. The business died because we lacked marketing expertise and a good distribution channel. In 1998 or 1999 a group of musicians got together and began the Pearl Awards. This was run similarly to the Academy Awards but the focus was on rewarding people for creating excellent religious music. We qualified to be voting members for the Pearl Awards. This meant that we could nominate things and we could vote for who we thought should win. The first year we were excited to recieve all the demo CD’s and review them and vote. After that when the CDs began to arrive they carried a load of guilt because we didn’t have time to really review them all and make informed decisions. Some years we neglected to vote at all. This meant that people were spending money to send us CDs and were getting no benefit from it. After we’d been out of the record production business for a couple of years we let our membership lapse because it felt dishonest to keep accepting free CDs when we weren’t in the industry anymore.

All of that is back story.

On Tuesday at my writer’s group we had a breif discussion about membership in SFWA (Science Fiction Writer’s Association.) One of the advantages that was brought forward was getting to vote for the Hugo and Nebula awards. Because of my experience with the Pearl Awards, I waved my hands and dismissed this as more of an annoyance than a benefit. I’m still concerned that some of the annoyances of being a voting member are inherent in award systems. So many things are nominated that it is hard to properly review everything. But music was not my field. It has never been my field. I was there because of Howard. On the other hand, writing and reading are what I do. I am constantly looking for things to read. I am much more likely to read 20 novels than I am to listen to 20 CDs. And when I’m done with the novels I’ll have much more to say about them than I would about the music. So being a voting member in SFWA would be much different than being a voting member of the Pearl awards.

It is something to think about. I don’t have to make any decisions until I actually qualify to become a SFWA member.

When I close my eyes I see pages of the new Schlock mercenary book. It turns out that “having plans for all the white space” is not exactly the same as having no white spaces. Some of my plans entail more work, like locating the picture I want to put in the space, or writing something. Most of the additional writing and drawing will be done by Howard, but in two places I get to write stuff. Then when Howard gets done writing and drawing he hands it to me. I write notes about where it will go and hand the stuff off to the layout guy. This is going to take up a portion of my brain until the project is complete. The end is in sight. Most of it will be done this week.

I got several bits of happy news today, none of them are mine to share, but they make me very glad. Writer’s group went really well last night. I recieved good feedback on my story. I hope they continue to like the next two installments and that they can help me identify where it is still broken. I know that it needs work, I’ve just been unable to put my finger on where it needs work.

So the day has been good. I’m just tired now.

I think this writing group thing is like swimming. Everyone does some flailing and splashing and swallowing water. I actually do know how to swim. I know how to give and receive critiques. My techniques may need some polishing, but I’ve got the basics. But I’m like the child who swims great where she can touch the bottom, but panics when thrown into the deep end. The depth of the water below doesn’t change the mechanics of swimming at all, but knowing that the water is deep is scary.

By joining this writers group, I’ve jumped into the deep end of the pool. All of these people have been focused on writing-as-a-career for longer than I have. They’ve all had prior experience with writer’s groups. They’ve been to writers camps. Some of them are published novelists with agents and careers on the go. Every week I’m excited just to get to read what they’ve written. These are high-caliber writers. I’ve definitely jumped into the deep water.

I just need to remember that I know how to swim. I can do this as long as I can stop being afraid.

In the deep end it’s sink or swim. I don’t intend to sink, so I need to calm down and swim.

I was feeling pretty good as I drove down to writers group. I remembered how the first time I do a new thing, like a new school schedule, it always knocks me flat. But the second day is always better. This was my second writers group, so I walked in expecting to feel more comfortable. I did.

The critique of my submission was first. Every comment was encouraging. Even the comments that were telling me about problems still made me feel good about my skill as a writer. I was talking and interacting and having a chance to discuss my story with people who liked it. I was relaxed and having fun. Unfortunately, one of the other things I was doing was arguing with the critiquers about what they were saying. The point of submitting for critique is to listen, not to try to convince everyone else that I’m right. I don’t think I was bad or blatant about it, but I was definitely arguing. This issue is a hot-button for one of the other writers. He finished his critique by pointing out what I was doing and how it made the people critiquing feel. (Should note that he later apologized for saying this in front of everyone else. In fact, he apologized twice.)

I wanted to crawl into a hole. I’d though I was doing well. But suddenly I knew I’d been breaking one of the unwritten rules of a writer’s group. It wasn’t my fault. It is a common newbie mistake to make, but I began second guessing everything I had said and done for the whole evening, trying to figure out if I’d done anything else wrong. To my alarm, my eyes began to water. The last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of my writer’s group. If arguing is a newbie mistake, then bursting into tears is definitely one as well. I tried to bottle up the emotion to deal with later. I tried to focus on the task at hand. It didn’t work. My eyes kept leaking. So then I did the classic hide-behind-the-hair technique that is one of the benefits of having long hair. That didn’t improve things much either. I was crying and I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t. It only took me a few minutes to realize that I’d definitely passed the threshold where no one else noticed. It is hard not to notice when someone four feet away from you is hiding behind their hair, sniffling, and wiping her eyes. I fled to the bathroom.

Mortified is a good word to use here because it implies that the embarrassment is so severe that one wants to die. I mean the word has “mort” right there in it. I didn’t want to die, but the veneer of being a stable, capable, professional writer had surely shattered and died. I might be able to pick up the pieces and glue it back together, but it would take days. I did not want to go back out into that room. I wanted to go home and curl up into a tiny ball. But if I went home I knew that putting myself back together would take much longer. This was a get-right-back-on-the-horse situation. Also I was certain that the other people in the group were feeling variously uncomfortable knowing that I was hiding in the bathroom crying. They kept going and critiquing. I could hear their voices in the other room. I was so glad they kept going, that my little outburst wasn’t derailing the event for everyone. Besides, in order to go home I’d have to go to the room with all the people in it to get my car keys.

One way or another, I was going to have to face everyone. I splashed cold water on my face. Seeing my own face in the mirror made me want to hide a little longer. Why is evidence of crying so hard to hide? Red-eyed or not, I had to get back out there. So I did. And it was fine. I think I contributed some useful commentary. I didn’t do any more crying. But I did continue to second guess every word that came out of my mouth. It was this little cycle of needing to contribute, then speaking. Then wondering if I’d said something wrong or if my joke would be taken the wrong way and retreating into silence. I wanted to make jokes and break the tension I was feeling, but humor is sharp. So often it requires someone to bleed so that everyone can laugh. I did not want to make anyone else feel bad or hurt. I did make a couple of jokes and then worried that they’d been too sharp. Sometimes other people made jokes and the room filled with laughter. That made me feel glad and more comfortable.

When the critique time is over, the group sits around and just talks for awhile. I knew I had to say something. Trying to pretend that I hadn’t broken down would not help me figure out why it happened and how not to do it again. Besides, my break down was an elephant in the room. I was the only one who would dare to mention it, but I suspected that everyone would feel better if the elephant was discussed openly. I knew I would. So I started by apologizing for making everyone uncomfortable. We then had a good discussion about the purpose of critique groups and accepting and giving critiques. There was lots of good information there which I hope I’ve now absorbed.

Then it was time to go home. I finally got to curl up in a ball and cry. I cried for embarrassment. I cried because I’d been weak in public. Surely I’m old enough now to not need to flee to a bathroom and cry. I cried because I felt like an idiot. I cried because it was stupid for me to be so upset over such a small incident. There were other things too. Lots of little things that I apparently had to cry over separately. Fortunately I have Howard. He makes things better.

I’m going back to the Writer’s Group next week. I’m not convinced that a writer’s group is the right choice for me. I never have been. But I can’t tell whether that opinion is just my fear speaking, or if it is actually logical. The only way for me to find out is to keep going to a writer’s group until it is like comfortable old clothes. Then I can decide on the value of the clothes to me. I could not find a better writer’s group than this one. I would be an idiot to give it up. I will get comfortable eventually. Once I do, I don’t think I’ll want to leave anymore. The only way to get there is to take the next step. So I take a big breath and keep walking. Even when I want to curl into a ball.

I attended my first Writer’s Group last night. It went really well. Everyone liked the story I submitted, which made me glad. Then they pointed out the flaws so that I could make the story even better. This is exactly what is supposed to happen and what I’m supposed to do in return. I felt like I gave some good feedback, nothing stellar mostly backing up or contradicting other opinions. I felt like a solid contributing member of the group, which is as it should be.

Everything went well, and I still came home and fell into an emotional little heap. Fortunately I have a wonderful husband who sat and listened to me decompress. Then he helped me see that everything went as it should have, but I was having an emotional reaction because this writer’s group experience is well outside my comfort zone. He’s right. I’m so much more comfortable staying in my own home and writing while pretending that no one else will ever see it. Howard can see that being part of thes writers group will make me grow. I can see it too. But growth is seldom comfortable. I think he is also right in predicting that as I continue to go to writer’s group, I will stop doing the “emotional heap” thing when I get home.

The good news is that today was a really good writing day. I broke through a couple of blockages that I’d had on two different projects. This completely destroys my worry that knowing I’d be submitting to writers group would cause me to freeze up. I suppose that could still happen at a later date, but I’m already granting myself permission to not submit every week. That removes some of the pressure. I would like to submit something this week, but now I have to figure out what to submit.