The biggest mistake I've made over the past year is: trying to work on ten projects all at once. It's so difficult to say no to a project that is new and exciting and WILL BE SO GREAT!
But the problem with dating around is that you never get the golden anniversary dinner. I've got a lot of great stuff 80% finished, but no final products and no money earned from writing.
So over the next year, I'm working on ONE thing at a time. I think it's going to do a lot for both my ability to meet my goals, and the quality of my work.
My proof is: by working on one story hardcore over the last few weeks, I've seen an improvement in both those things.
So my writing priority starting Jan. 1 is: my novel's third draft.
And, of course, researching the non-fiction. But that's not really writing, so it doesn't count, right?
Showing posts with label philosophizin'. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philosophizin'. Show all posts
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Foreign Soiled
My boyfriend was reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao last month, and he said it would have been nearly impenetrable if he didn't know Spanish. On the other hand, what are the odds that all those award committee jury members spoke Spanish?
How much foreign language is too much?
My most recent story is set in a French-speaking country, so there are a few French words here and there (ie, "mon petit" is said at one point). I either made sure the words were obvious in their context (such as the above endearment, spoken from an adult to a child she's babysitting) or I provided a translation right away--and I never used more than one foreign word in a scene.
The more sophisticated ways I got around using foreign languages in a foreign country while maintaining authenticity were:
1. My narrator was American, so sometimes she couldn't understand what was being said, either.
2. When people spoke English to her, they were usually translating from French--so I figured out how to say their line in French *first* and then wrote the direct English translation of it. For example, I would use French-English cognates, even if a native English speaker would be more likely to use the cognate's synonym. Sometimes I would also change the order of words, if another order would be *much* more natural in French. I tried to never use American idioms or word order that would be *supremely* unnatural in French.
3. Once, when the narrator is out of commission and two French-speakers have to talk to one another, they exchange one French phrase. I don't translate the phrase, but it's one character asking another to do something--and the second character immediately does what the first asks him to do. At that point, the narrator is in a really hazy, bad place, so I figured a little confusion would be fine. The context definitely required that the characters speak in French, but luckily they didn't have to speak much nor about anything abstract.
Of course, little to none of this would have been possible if I didn't have a relatively strong background in French; I can't imagine doing it in any other language. How much background knowledge IS necessary, though? Was *all* my knowledge of French coming into play, or does one only need to have a feel for the language?
How much foreign language is too much?
My most recent story is set in a French-speaking country, so there are a few French words here and there (ie, "mon petit" is said at one point). I either made sure the words were obvious in their context (such as the above endearment, spoken from an adult to a child she's babysitting) or I provided a translation right away--and I never used more than one foreign word in a scene.
The more sophisticated ways I got around using foreign languages in a foreign country while maintaining authenticity were:
1. My narrator was American, so sometimes she couldn't understand what was being said, either.
2. When people spoke English to her, they were usually translating from French--so I figured out how to say their line in French *first* and then wrote the direct English translation of it. For example, I would use French-English cognates, even if a native English speaker would be more likely to use the cognate's synonym. Sometimes I would also change the order of words, if another order would be *much* more natural in French. I tried to never use American idioms or word order that would be *supremely* unnatural in French.
3. Once, when the narrator is out of commission and two French-speakers have to talk to one another, they exchange one French phrase. I don't translate the phrase, but it's one character asking another to do something--and the second character immediately does what the first asks him to do. At that point, the narrator is in a really hazy, bad place, so I figured a little confusion would be fine. The context definitely required that the characters speak in French, but luckily they didn't have to speak much nor about anything abstract.
Of course, little to none of this would have been possible if I didn't have a relatively strong background in French; I can't imagine doing it in any other language. How much background knowledge IS necessary, though? Was *all* my knowledge of French coming into play, or does one only need to have a feel for the language?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Story Web?
I've got a looooong story that I love.
It's about 12K, and needs all those words (plus some). But since nobody wants to read a forty page short story, I can either cut it to below fifteen or expand it to about three hundred. I was thinking: this particular story isn't done yet. Maybe I could expand.
I was considering: I'd take each page, and expand it to 2K. That would give me an 80K story manuscript totally within the perimeters of the present story.
The big PRO is actually not about the final product though--I thought it might be a a fascinating experiment, a way to push myself deeper as opposed to longer.
The more I think about it, the more I think this might be really good for me as a writer. But *is* it possible to create a readable story like that?
It's about 12K, and needs all those words (plus some). But since nobody wants to read a forty page short story, I can either cut it to below fifteen or expand it to about three hundred. I was thinking: this particular story isn't done yet. Maybe I could expand.
I was considering: I'd take each page, and expand it to 2K. That would give me an 80K story manuscript totally within the perimeters of the present story.
The big PRO is actually not about the final product though--I thought it might be a a fascinating experiment, a way to push myself deeper as opposed to longer.
The more I think about it, the more I think this might be really good for me as a writer. But *is* it possible to create a readable story like that?
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Umami
The Washington Post has a Book World this week (!!!)--but, of course, the section doesn't have reviews in it. Instead, it's all lists of the "best" books of the year, and an essay by Ann Patchett about how she never works.
Well, not *never.* But apparently not much. She's shocked by her output, based on how little time she spends writing.
Anyway, she did say something interesting: that writing is an endurance game. "The process of writing books is somewhat akin to a very long police interrogation in which the detective leans over the table littered with the butt ends of cigarettes and cold coffee in Styrofoam cups and says for the 87th time, 'Now let's go over this again.' It is a study in repetition, the ability to read the same page, paragraph, sentence until it could be recited backward and in French in hopes of figuring out which detail is missing, which idea is false."
I've been frustrated for a long while--about a year--because it feels like I pour time and effort into projects, but ultimately create little of worth. What about the law of Conservation of Energy?! Where does all that work *go*?! I'm bewildered by my input v. output ratio.
I'm aghast when I read my (even slightly) older stuff, because my current piece seems so much better. My writing from a year or two ago seems juvenile and angst-ridden. My writing from a year ago seems dry. My writing from six months ago seems jejune. And I just looked at the personal statement I sent to law schools in Fall of 2007 and it was humiliatingly bad. How did I get in?! What has happened between that crap and this story? Not *that* much could have changed in six months, could it?
Is this just a lack of perspective? Or is this what always happens when one puts in 1,000 hours on the same 40-50 pages? Is this story just uniquely good? Maybe (I hope/wish/pray) I've finally crossed some sort of professional line?
Maybe it's just the cumulative writing time I've now put in...I usually put in 2-10 hours of writing a day, and have for a year and a half. And outside of writing, the circumstances of my life have changed significantly; there's a big difference between just-turned-22 and going-on-24. Maybe it's my growing writing experience, paired with my growing life experience resulting in more mature (better) writing?
Not to boast: I mean, improving is great, but success is better.
So: I've still got another draft to go on this story--but it's a clean-up and cut-down type thing. My beta-reader is looking over it again, I'll sort through what he has to say and apply what I agree with, then print this baby up and look for typos.
Yes, I'm IMMENSELY proud of this story. It truly is the best I could possibly do, and as I said before--it feels like it grew from an inspired seed, it still feels touched by the muse. I'm a materialist normally, and that "inspiration/"artiste" language grates--but something feels *right* to me about this piece.
There's no telling whether it'll open the doors I want, but I'm proud of this story--and of myself--regardless.
Well, not *never.* But apparently not much. She's shocked by her output, based on how little time she spends writing.
Anyway, she did say something interesting: that writing is an endurance game. "The process of writing books is somewhat akin to a very long police interrogation in which the detective leans over the table littered with the butt ends of cigarettes and cold coffee in Styrofoam cups and says for the 87th time, 'Now let's go over this again.' It is a study in repetition, the ability to read the same page, paragraph, sentence until it could be recited backward and in French in hopes of figuring out which detail is missing, which idea is false."
I've been frustrated for a long while--about a year--because it feels like I pour time and effort into projects, but ultimately create little of worth. What about the law of Conservation of Energy?! Where does all that work *go*?! I'm bewildered by my input v. output ratio.
I'm aghast when I read my (even slightly) older stuff, because my current piece seems so much better. My writing from a year or two ago seems juvenile and angst-ridden. My writing from a year ago seems dry. My writing from six months ago seems jejune. And I just looked at the personal statement I sent to law schools in Fall of 2007 and it was humiliatingly bad. How did I get in?! What has happened between that crap and this story? Not *that* much could have changed in six months, could it?
Is this just a lack of perspective? Or is this what always happens when one puts in 1,000 hours on the same 40-50 pages? Is this story just uniquely good? Maybe (I hope/wish/pray) I've finally crossed some sort of professional line?
Maybe it's just the cumulative writing time I've now put in...I usually put in 2-10 hours of writing a day, and have for a year and a half. And outside of writing, the circumstances of my life have changed significantly; there's a big difference between just-turned-22 and going-on-24. Maybe it's my growing writing experience, paired with my growing life experience resulting in more mature (better) writing?
Not to boast: I mean, improving is great, but success is better.
So: I've still got another draft to go on this story--but it's a clean-up and cut-down type thing. My beta-reader is looking over it again, I'll sort through what he has to say and apply what I agree with, then print this baby up and look for typos.
Yes, I'm IMMENSELY proud of this story. It truly is the best I could possibly do, and as I said before--it feels like it grew from an inspired seed, it still feels touched by the muse. I'm a materialist normally, and that "inspiration/"artiste" language grates--but something feels *right* to me about this piece.
There's no telling whether it'll open the doors I want, but I'm proud of this story--and of myself--regardless.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Hopeless Mediocrity: Why I Write
J.R. Lennon at the blog Ward Six asked today: What book made you who you are? In the interest of not hijacking the comments thread, I'm posting my thoughts here.
Peter Pan.
I loved "Hook" and begged for the fancy, twenty-dollar Peter Pan edition. Guess that edition was so fancy as to be unabridged. It was full of spilling blood and real danger, something I'd never read about before.
I loved it! I forced my friends to play "Peter Pan" with me every day, in a kind of live-action fan-fic. (I was always Peter, of course). That period was the first time I dove into a fully-formed fantasy land--not just playing pretend, but forming whole narratives.
The magic died for me on Halloween when, all dressed up as Peter Pan though I was, my parents followed (chatting!) while my friends and I trick or treated. There wasn't any real danger at all.
Still, reading Peter Pan was the first time a story really opened up for me, when fiction became a place to experiment and create and to learn things I couldn't while trapped in real life.
I haven't re-read it since--haven't had the heart to.
To which, J.R. Lennon asked, "So when, in your present day life, do you most feel you're channeling Pan?"
I said:
Peter Pan doesn't belong in a broke grown-up's world, I guess.
When I was younger, I tried all the usual things a curious child/teen/college kid does...but what is there for an adventurous adult? I'd do anything to escape my skin and really learn something... How could all the freshness be rubbed off of life so soon?
I've lost the thrill. Drug highs are limited, and drinking stupefies. Sex may be intense, but it's still always got the same old orgasm at the end. I've traveled more than my budget allows, and found the same shit in all those different places. Half my family live like vagabonds, but they're fundamentally the same as the half that are middle class; i.e., just as bored. The nine-to-five/responsible boyfriend thing nearly killed me. But what else is there? F*ing extreme sports?!
My only answer to the ennui is reading and writing--it's my (quasi) socially acceptable version of playing pretend, I guess. But I wish there were more.
Suggestions welcome! How do people find adventure in real life?
Peter Pan.
I loved "Hook" and begged for the fancy, twenty-dollar Peter Pan edition. Guess that edition was so fancy as to be unabridged. It was full of spilling blood and real danger, something I'd never read about before.
I loved it! I forced my friends to play "Peter Pan" with me every day, in a kind of live-action fan-fic. (I was always Peter, of course). That period was the first time I dove into a fully-formed fantasy land--not just playing pretend, but forming whole narratives.
The magic died for me on Halloween when, all dressed up as Peter Pan though I was, my parents followed (chatting!) while my friends and I trick or treated. There wasn't any real danger at all.
Still, reading Peter Pan was the first time a story really opened up for me, when fiction became a place to experiment and create and to learn things I couldn't while trapped in real life.
I haven't re-read it since--haven't had the heart to.
To which, J.R. Lennon asked, "So when, in your present day life, do you most feel you're channeling Pan?"
I said:
Peter Pan doesn't belong in a broke grown-up's world, I guess.
When I was younger, I tried all the usual things a curious child/teen/college kid does...but what is there for an adventurous adult? I'd do anything to escape my skin and really learn something... How could all the freshness be rubbed off of life so soon?
I've lost the thrill. Drug highs are limited, and drinking stupefies. Sex may be intense, but it's still always got the same old orgasm at the end. I've traveled more than my budget allows, and found the same shit in all those different places. Half my family live like vagabonds, but they're fundamentally the same as the half that are middle class; i.e., just as bored. The nine-to-five/responsible boyfriend thing nearly killed me. But what else is there? F*ing extreme sports?!
My only answer to the ennui is reading and writing--it's my (quasi) socially acceptable version of playing pretend, I guess. But I wish there were more.
Suggestions welcome! How do people find adventure in real life?
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Earnestness, the Quest
There is a blog I like (zunguzungu) written by an academic. This academic uses lots of post-modern-generator-type language which sometimes makes me worry: Am I smart enough for this blog? But he has a very specific point of view, and thinks everything through thoroughly, so I'm always up for trying to get his take.
Anyway, recently he had a picture of this man with huge black glasses, a gap-tooth, gold ring, and goatee. Next to the picture ran an arrogant yet out of touch personal ad. And I guess we're supposed to laugh at the funky man and his funky attempt at human connection. At first I did, anyway.
But seeing the picture again, I can't help but feel a huge tug of tenderness for this person. It's like the feeling I get when I see people's socks. Socks are so innocent; people wear them to protect their shoes and make their feet comfortable. Nobody but the person wearing those socks give a shit whether they're there or not. Socks remind me of all the things people do in order to face the world every day, and when I see them I melt a little.
Once you start paying attention to people, it's tough to be mean to them. When you think of Person X carefully pulling on his socks, doing his laundry, taking his vitamins, hoping his friends will call, missing the subway--when you think of all the hope and effort it took to get Person X here with you at this moment, it's hard to be a bitch and let him know that all that effort is just going to get him pain and humiliation. Which I guess is why everyone loves the long American Psycho montage of Patrick getting ready in the morning? On the one hand, it's easy to make fun of the care he takes with his body, since he doesn't take care of anything else...but it also humanizes him and establishes him as the main character.
This post is not a personal reminder to show my characters waking up and dressing in the morning. It is a reminder, however, to feel tenderness toward them. All we see are the action movie goons getting shot, but somewhere (in our imagination) they all have mothers being crushed and apartments that now need cleaning out and half-written manuscripts that will now be burned.
So in my writing today: tenderness in, brutality out. I think it'll make my work deeper and truer.
Anyway, recently he had a picture of this man with huge black glasses, a gap-tooth, gold ring, and goatee. Next to the picture ran an arrogant yet out of touch personal ad. And I guess we're supposed to laugh at the funky man and his funky attempt at human connection. At first I did, anyway.
But seeing the picture again, I can't help but feel a huge tug of tenderness for this person. It's like the feeling I get when I see people's socks. Socks are so innocent; people wear them to protect their shoes and make their feet comfortable. Nobody but the person wearing those socks give a shit whether they're there or not. Socks remind me of all the things people do in order to face the world every day, and when I see them I melt a little.
Once you start paying attention to people, it's tough to be mean to them. When you think of Person X carefully pulling on his socks, doing his laundry, taking his vitamins, hoping his friends will call, missing the subway--when you think of all the hope and effort it took to get Person X here with you at this moment, it's hard to be a bitch and let him know that all that effort is just going to get him pain and humiliation. Which I guess is why everyone loves the long American Psycho montage of Patrick getting ready in the morning? On the one hand, it's easy to make fun of the care he takes with his body, since he doesn't take care of anything else...but it also humanizes him and establishes him as the main character.
This post is not a personal reminder to show my characters waking up and dressing in the morning. It is a reminder, however, to feel tenderness toward them. All we see are the action movie goons getting shot, but somewhere (in our imagination) they all have mothers being crushed and apartments that now need cleaning out and half-written manuscripts that will now be burned.
So in my writing today: tenderness in, brutality out. I think it'll make my work deeper and truer.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Trompe d'Oeil
Last night I watched an episode of Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew. And I'm not going to lie: I watch Vh1 and MTV and Bravo and all those shows everyone makes fun of.
Well, not the Hills anymore. But all the others.
Anyway, this show is fascinating. And I was trying to figure out why.
Last time I couldn't understand why a story was compelling, it was because the main character was in an unsolvable dilemma with his/her humanity at stake. Maybe that's true for Sex Rehab, too.
But I think it's because of the honesty.
On drug rehab and on all the Desperate Housewives of (Insert City), the cast is all brain-fried, drunk, or unbearably self-conscious. Everything feels very fake. I thought this show would be the same, but the combination of smart people with enforced sobriety has made it what Big Brother always wished it could be.
And while watching it, I think I learned the actual meaning of authenticity and honesty. It's been my mission for a while in my writing to be as authentic and as "me" as possible. But that seemed like a vague and unreachable goal. Now, I wonder if all that requires is earnestness.
There are three people on the show that I'm fascinated by:
Duncan (film director) and Jennie (dominatrix). At first, I thought I enjoyed watching them so much because they were (are) quick witted and funny. But now I think it's because they seem so earnest about concentrating only on their mission (to connect to people in a healthy way) and to finally become themselves. That's it--whether they *are* being themselves or not, they seem to be *trying* to be themselves always. Watching both of these people come to realizations on the show is 1. a lesson in the inadequacies of acting (when these people look sad, they look sad in a way I've only before seen on documentaries on subjected women in China, for God's sake--they are sad with all of themselves). 2. the importance of being earnest.
James (surfer). He looks like he's ill, barely speaks, and his actions don't seem linked at all to common sense. But when I saw the episode last night, one thing really struck me. The producers finally decided to show some one-on-one time between him and the therapists/producers, and during that time, James talked about how nothing bad had ever really happened to him except that he slept with apparently every women who would have him (losing friends in the process) and that his mother punished him when he deserved it. Of course, this being TV in the era of Law and Order: SVU, the therapists immediately ask, "Punish you how?" and James talks about throwing things, etc, and about how he lost his virginity early (not to her, lol). Anyway, every time he says something weird, like about his mother throwing a knife at him or having lots of sex at age eleven, the therapists look weirded out and ask him how he feels about that in hindsight. The thing about James is it seems he has no hindsight at all.
When he says his mother threw a machete at him, for example, he *immediately* says that he probably deserved it. And looks embarrassed and sad while he admits it. The therapist says, "what could a kid do to deserve getting a knife thrown at him?" and James can't come up with anything. When they ask, "would you ever throw a knife at a little kid," of course, he says no. The whole time, he's constantly leaping to the defense of everyone else: the older kids and adults he had sex with in his early adolescence, his mother, whomever. Why?! He seems completely unself-aware.
How did he end up composing this completely chaotic narrative for himself--that people treated him badly or at least inappropriately because he looked like he could take it? How did he look back at his whole life and think of it as a million unconnected episodes in which he just happened to be around confused people?
I think of everything as a narrative, and it's obvious that most of the people on the show do, too. For instance, on the same episode, Duncan sees a therapist who says he's probably re-acting the same scene with men now that he began as a child...and Duncan seems to think that's perfectly plausible and even enlightening. But then, they show James, wholeheartedly leaping to the defense of anyone he's ever met, while finding himself in this horrible position (bizarre and alone)...how does this man think about time? How does he make goals for himself? How does he relate to others? How does he think about himself.
When he immediately said that he probably deserved getting a machete thrown at him, it was what would have been a "telling detail" if he were a character in a script or story. It's fascinating watching something so messy, like James's sense of self, and inserting it into the neat box of art: this was foreshadowing, that was a telling detail, the whole show is his climax, and soon we'll find a sort of resolution....
Putting someone who sees his life entirely outside the realm of narrative, and then editing it *into* a narrative arc....
Wow. So, is storytelling inherently dishonest? I've always thought the narrative of what could have or should have happened is, in its way, *more* truthful than a plain recitation of the facts. But maybe narrative *is* all fake.
Ok, utterly confused now. Which is honesty: James's episodic and chaotic thoughts on the world, or Duncan's self-aware narrative arc?
Well, not the Hills anymore. But all the others.
Anyway, this show is fascinating. And I was trying to figure out why.
Last time I couldn't understand why a story was compelling, it was because the main character was in an unsolvable dilemma with his/her humanity at stake. Maybe that's true for Sex Rehab, too.
But I think it's because of the honesty.
On drug rehab and on all the Desperate Housewives of (Insert City), the cast is all brain-fried, drunk, or unbearably self-conscious. Everything feels very fake. I thought this show would be the same, but the combination of smart people with enforced sobriety has made it what Big Brother always wished it could be.
And while watching it, I think I learned the actual meaning of authenticity and honesty. It's been my mission for a while in my writing to be as authentic and as "me" as possible. But that seemed like a vague and unreachable goal. Now, I wonder if all that requires is earnestness.
There are three people on the show that I'm fascinated by:
Duncan (film director) and Jennie (dominatrix). At first, I thought I enjoyed watching them so much because they were (are) quick witted and funny. But now I think it's because they seem so earnest about concentrating only on their mission (to connect to people in a healthy way) and to finally become themselves. That's it--whether they *are* being themselves or not, they seem to be *trying* to be themselves always. Watching both of these people come to realizations on the show is 1. a lesson in the inadequacies of acting (when these people look sad, they look sad in a way I've only before seen on documentaries on subjected women in China, for God's sake--they are sad with all of themselves). 2. the importance of being earnest.
James (surfer). He looks like he's ill, barely speaks, and his actions don't seem linked at all to common sense. But when I saw the episode last night, one thing really struck me. The producers finally decided to show some one-on-one time between him and the therapists/producers, and during that time, James talked about how nothing bad had ever really happened to him except that he slept with apparently every women who would have him (losing friends in the process) and that his mother punished him when he deserved it. Of course, this being TV in the era of Law and Order: SVU, the therapists immediately ask, "Punish you how?" and James talks about throwing things, etc, and about how he lost his virginity early (not to her, lol). Anyway, every time he says something weird, like about his mother throwing a knife at him or having lots of sex at age eleven, the therapists look weirded out and ask him how he feels about that in hindsight. The thing about James is it seems he has no hindsight at all.
When he says his mother threw a machete at him, for example, he *immediately* says that he probably deserved it. And looks embarrassed and sad while he admits it. The therapist says, "what could a kid do to deserve getting a knife thrown at him?" and James can't come up with anything. When they ask, "would you ever throw a knife at a little kid," of course, he says no. The whole time, he's constantly leaping to the defense of everyone else: the older kids and adults he had sex with in his early adolescence, his mother, whomever. Why?! He seems completely unself-aware.
How did he end up composing this completely chaotic narrative for himself--that people treated him badly or at least inappropriately because he looked like he could take it? How did he look back at his whole life and think of it as a million unconnected episodes in which he just happened to be around confused people?
I think of everything as a narrative, and it's obvious that most of the people on the show do, too. For instance, on the same episode, Duncan sees a therapist who says he's probably re-acting the same scene with men now that he began as a child...and Duncan seems to think that's perfectly plausible and even enlightening. But then, they show James, wholeheartedly leaping to the defense of anyone he's ever met, while finding himself in this horrible position (bizarre and alone)...how does this man think about time? How does he make goals for himself? How does he relate to others? How does he think about himself.
When he immediately said that he probably deserved getting a machete thrown at him, it was what would have been a "telling detail" if he were a character in a script or story. It's fascinating watching something so messy, like James's sense of self, and inserting it into the neat box of art: this was foreshadowing, that was a telling detail, the whole show is his climax, and soon we'll find a sort of resolution....
Putting someone who sees his life entirely outside the realm of narrative, and then editing it *into* a narrative arc....
Wow. So, is storytelling inherently dishonest? I've always thought the narrative of what could have or should have happened is, in its way, *more* truthful than a plain recitation of the facts. But maybe narrative *is* all fake.
Ok, utterly confused now. Which is honesty: James's episodic and chaotic thoughts on the world, or Duncan's self-aware narrative arc?
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
beginnings are beautiful, but all i want is a fucking end
So, now I'm back and the deadline for my two MUST BE PERFECT short stories is fast approaching (as well as my MUST BE PERFECT play) and I'm--what?!--writing a proposal for a non-fiction book.
Why can't I finish anything?
Every time I get near the end of a third draft, every time the finish line even SEEMS to glimmer in the distance BOOM "inspiration" strikes.
Would it be any less procrastination if I were bathing my cat or making a three-hour dinner or chatting on the telephone? I'm starting to suspect that I won't ever finish a goddamn thing.
What's wrong with me? Why can I get 80% there with each of these projects, and why is it so hard for me to complete the final steps? Why can't I say THIS is the ABSOLUTE BEST I can do?
Now that the semi-finalist notification process must be winding down, I'm realizing I probably didn't get a T.V. fellowship this year...which is OK--I was a first-time T.V. scriptwriter, and a first-time applicant. Still, losing burns. And I keep looking back at that script and thinking: I could still make it better.
No matter that it's the most complete thing I've got. And that applying was so important to me because I hadn't finished any of my projects in so long before that. And that my TV scripts are not my priority right now.
There are so many things I want to write--too many things. On the one hand, they all weigh (so heavily!) on me, begging to be made beautiful. But on the other hand, I feel so great when I'm only beginning a project, when it feels so magical that I keep going back to get that rush...and then I end up feeling even more burdened by before!
Ok, so what I'm saying is: I've got to be strong minded. I've got to keep my priorities in check. I've made a six-month schedule, and I'm sticking to it GODDAMN IT because I can't stand this horrible newly-clothed-emperor feeling of working so hard for years and having nearly nothing but "draft zeroes."
Guess this is a pep-talk? Against procrastination disguised as productivity? For sticking to a life plan?
How did I become someone with a rock fucking solid LIFE PLAN?!
Why can't I finish anything?
Every time I get near the end of a third draft, every time the finish line even SEEMS to glimmer in the distance BOOM "inspiration" strikes.
Would it be any less procrastination if I were bathing my cat or making a three-hour dinner or chatting on the telephone? I'm starting to suspect that I won't ever finish a goddamn thing.
What's wrong with me? Why can I get 80% there with each of these projects, and why is it so hard for me to complete the final steps? Why can't I say THIS is the ABSOLUTE BEST I can do?
Now that the semi-finalist notification process must be winding down, I'm realizing I probably didn't get a T.V. fellowship this year...which is OK--I was a first-time T.V. scriptwriter, and a first-time applicant. Still, losing burns. And I keep looking back at that script and thinking: I could still make it better.
No matter that it's the most complete thing I've got. And that applying was so important to me because I hadn't finished any of my projects in so long before that. And that my TV scripts are not my priority right now.
There are so many things I want to write--too many things. On the one hand, they all weigh (so heavily!) on me, begging to be made beautiful. But on the other hand, I feel so great when I'm only beginning a project, when it feels so magical that I keep going back to get that rush...and then I end up feeling even more burdened by before!
Ok, so what I'm saying is: I've got to be strong minded. I've got to keep my priorities in check. I've made a six-month schedule, and I'm sticking to it GODDAMN IT because I can't stand this horrible newly-clothed-emperor feeling of working so hard for years and having nearly nothing but "draft zeroes."
Guess this is a pep-talk? Against procrastination disguised as productivity? For sticking to a life plan?
How did I become someone with a rock fucking solid LIFE PLAN?!
Friday, November 13, 2009
Resolution Reboot
I've decided to put NaNo on hold. I've decided to put the claymation on hold. I've decided to put my collaborative feature on hold. I've decided to put my teaching internship on hold. I've decided to put my "zombie" manuscript's third draft on hold. I've decided to put my seven half-finished stories and my three ready-for-final-edit stories on hold. I've decided not to take any more classes this year. Just keep the one job I have. Talk to my friends a little less. I've decided to put my second spec TV script on hold, my first TV pilot on hold, and my second edit on last year's TV fellowship application script on hold. The short movie script I've "finished" for Xmas filming is on hold. My newest short film script is, too.
My plate is currently so full that the super-expensive, important, favorite food is about to rot beneath the pile of other stuff.
This past year, I met my New Year's resolutions, and I'm proud of that.
--Blogging. I started this blog in order to interact with other writers, which hasn't happened all that much... but along the way, I've become much more focused in and articulate about my process, which has been an immense help. The blog has been a success, at least for me as a writer, and I plan to continue it.
--Finishing a novel manuscript I could be proud of. Even though I haven't edited it to my satisfaction it IS entirely down on paper, follows a coherent plot, and is worth taking someplace--even if I'm not at the end of the road with it yet.
--Applying to the T.V. Fellowship. I was scared, inexperienced, and who knows how successful? But I did it! I met the deadline, and got a full spec outlined, written, and edited.
--Applying to grad schools. This is still in progress, but going strong (thank God).
The aim in 2008 was to dedicate myself to writing. The aim in 2009 was to find start finding a place in the writing community. The aim for 2010 is to begin a focused effort to specific goals.
When writing first became my priority (as a college grad, not student), I had a hard time finding projects that felt right. But now I'm overwhelmed by ideas I love. The problem is, I've been hopscotching around, doing as much as I can on all of them, never truly feeling proud and finished with one.
So my aim this year is, in short, to finish things. That means working on one or two projects at a time, toward one goal at a time.
Right now, my goal is to have the strongest grad school application I possibly can. That means the only things I'm *not* putting on hold are the things I need to do to meet that goal. So, I've got two stories, four essays, and a play to write, as well as school forms to fill out. AND THAT'S ALL (I swear).
My plate is currently so full that the super-expensive, important, favorite food is about to rot beneath the pile of other stuff.
This past year, I met my New Year's resolutions, and I'm proud of that.
--Blogging. I started this blog in order to interact with other writers, which hasn't happened all that much... but along the way, I've become much more focused in and articulate about my process, which has been an immense help. The blog has been a success, at least for me as a writer, and I plan to continue it.
--Finishing a novel manuscript I could be proud of. Even though I haven't edited it to my satisfaction it IS entirely down on paper, follows a coherent plot, and is worth taking someplace--even if I'm not at the end of the road with it yet.
--Applying to the T.V. Fellowship. I was scared, inexperienced, and who knows how successful? But I did it! I met the deadline, and got a full spec outlined, written, and edited.
--Applying to grad schools. This is still in progress, but going strong (thank God).
The aim in 2008 was to dedicate myself to writing. The aim in 2009 was to find start finding a place in the writing community. The aim for 2010 is to begin a focused effort to specific goals.
When writing first became my priority (as a college grad, not student), I had a hard time finding projects that felt right. But now I'm overwhelmed by ideas I love. The problem is, I've been hopscotching around, doing as much as I can on all of them, never truly feeling proud and finished with one.
So my aim this year is, in short, to finish things. That means working on one or two projects at a time, toward one goal at a time.
Right now, my goal is to have the strongest grad school application I possibly can. That means the only things I'm *not* putting on hold are the things I need to do to meet that goal. So, I've got two stories, four essays, and a play to write, as well as school forms to fill out. AND THAT'S ALL (I swear).
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
just another brick in the adobe
The last couple days have been packed with procrastination, and I'm sick of how that feels. Today is NaNo catch-up day.
I'm fine in terms of the official word count, but I'd planned to write 2.5K each day for the month, in order to get an entire draft done. Since my drafts seem to be better when composed in condensed time-frames, I figured NaNo would be the perfect opportunity to get a long-held and long-loved idea (finally) down on paper.
NaNo's upsides:
--It's easy to explain a group project like this even to people not especially into writing. And since lots of lay-people are doing it, it doesn't seem impossible or silly for me to try, too--even to people who otherwise forget I write.
--Lots of support. I never thought the forums would help me as much as they have. Hearing about other "nobodies" working to stack up high word-counts and struggling with the day to day drafting process has been great. And the counter at the top of my page--even joining the site at all--has given me a sense of accountability.
NaNo's downsides:
--Because the support and fellowship of NaNo are what brought me to it in the first place, I feel tied to the NaNo timetable; meaning, this is a November project, and it doesn't matter that this November is an incredibly stressful time for me.
--I don't know if such a speedy draft is best for this particular project. On the one hand, speed seems to work well for my writing in general--or at least, it has in the past. On the other, this level of speed doesn't allow for a "perfect" first draft..which, in a project like this, that I've already outlined and thought about, seems a shame. I wonder if a slower first-go might result in a better finished project? Maybe I've outgrown the need to silence my inner-editor by burying her under a mountain of words? Maybe I'd be better off letting her speak a bit during my drafting?
I'm not sure if keeping to my old NaNo inspired style of speed drafting is a way of refining my process or of crippling it....
I'm fine in terms of the official word count, but I'd planned to write 2.5K each day for the month, in order to get an entire draft done. Since my drafts seem to be better when composed in condensed time-frames, I figured NaNo would be the perfect opportunity to get a long-held and long-loved idea (finally) down on paper.
NaNo's upsides:
--It's easy to explain a group project like this even to people not especially into writing. And since lots of lay-people are doing it, it doesn't seem impossible or silly for me to try, too--even to people who otherwise forget I write.
--Lots of support. I never thought the forums would help me as much as they have. Hearing about other "nobodies" working to stack up high word-counts and struggling with the day to day drafting process has been great. And the counter at the top of my page--even joining the site at all--has given me a sense of accountability.
NaNo's downsides:
--Because the support and fellowship of NaNo are what brought me to it in the first place, I feel tied to the NaNo timetable; meaning, this is a November project, and it doesn't matter that this November is an incredibly stressful time for me.
--I don't know if such a speedy draft is best for this particular project. On the one hand, speed seems to work well for my writing in general--or at least, it has in the past. On the other, this level of speed doesn't allow for a "perfect" first draft..which, in a project like this, that I've already outlined and thought about, seems a shame. I wonder if a slower first-go might result in a better finished project? Maybe I've outgrown the need to silence my inner-editor by burying her under a mountain of words? Maybe I'd be better off letting her speak a bit during my drafting?
I'm not sure if keeping to my old NaNo inspired style of speed drafting is a way of refining my process or of crippling it....
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Gastault of SHUT UP
I haven't looked at my one finished and semi-polished manuscript in months.
It's not that I haven't been writing; in the meantime, I've "finished" a T.V. script, am going through the first draft of a feature script, "finished" a number of short stories (I was going for fifteen of them, but didn't quite make it), started shooting my clay-mation, and am a third through another manuscript's rough draft.
But this summer, sometime between falling in love (with a person, not book) and taking a beat-down at workshop, I've stopped toying with it, and started avoiding it. Not because I've lost faith in the manuscript, but because it suddenly feels too daunting. The notes for "fixing it" (Draft 1,000,000) are sitting on my desk, and the actual work is buried someplace on my hard-drive.
Yesterday, though, while I was at jury selection (sadly for my research, I didn't actually hear a case) I picked up a short story I'd written a couple months ago. It'd gotten on the page without plotting and without me stopping. When I'd finished the draft, something about it had felt right...
But I decided to put the story away for a bit and forget about it. I've been re-considering my editorial process, and I didn't want this potentially good story to get ripped apart. Yesterday I finally read it, for the first time. Though there were major problems (mostly, the plot is herky jerky), it was a great read! I loved the first half especially. And it had been long enough that I actually didn't remember the story at all, which was fantastic.
I think in editing my manuscript, I cut all the life. I tried so hard to follow the "rules" and only show the "interesting bits" and strengthen the plot, that I edited out the *story.* So with this piece ("Cherub") I'm going to be much gentler.
My process with it now is:
1. Figure out all the characters' arcs.
2. Edit the plot using five-act structure (make sure, mostly, that all the pieces are there, so that the ending is comprehensible).
3. Clarify the most awkward/confusing bits of writing
4. Show it (off?) to a trusted professor
5. Done!
I'm an analytical person, so I like to know why everything works the way it does. But the conscious mind only understands so much--a person can know much more than they can articulate. I've got to start trusting my experience, training, and taste, and forget about justifying everything in the courthouse of my frontal lobe. This story doesn't need to prove itself to anyone--it doesn't have a chance at "perfection," but it does have a chance at being itself.
Beyond this particular story, the hope is: once I've got new editorial confidence and method in place, maybe I won't feel so daunted by the task of infusing life back into my complicated plot-piece of a manuscript. Maybe, in fact, it'll feel natural. And this manuscript will still be something that can connect.
It's not that I haven't been writing; in the meantime, I've "finished" a T.V. script, am going through the first draft of a feature script, "finished" a number of short stories (I was going for fifteen of them, but didn't quite make it), started shooting my clay-mation, and am a third through another manuscript's rough draft.
But this summer, sometime between falling in love (with a person, not book) and taking a beat-down at workshop, I've stopped toying with it, and started avoiding it. Not because I've lost faith in the manuscript, but because it suddenly feels too daunting. The notes for "fixing it" (Draft 1,000,000) are sitting on my desk, and the actual work is buried someplace on my hard-drive.
Yesterday, though, while I was at jury selection (sadly for my research, I didn't actually hear a case) I picked up a short story I'd written a couple months ago. It'd gotten on the page without plotting and without me stopping. When I'd finished the draft, something about it had felt right...
But I decided to put the story away for a bit and forget about it. I've been re-considering my editorial process, and I didn't want this potentially good story to get ripped apart. Yesterday I finally read it, for the first time. Though there were major problems (mostly, the plot is herky jerky), it was a great read! I loved the first half especially. And it had been long enough that I actually didn't remember the story at all, which was fantastic.
I think in editing my manuscript, I cut all the life. I tried so hard to follow the "rules" and only show the "interesting bits" and strengthen the plot, that I edited out the *story.* So with this piece ("Cherub") I'm going to be much gentler.
My process with it now is:
1. Figure out all the characters' arcs.
2. Edit the plot using five-act structure (make sure, mostly, that all the pieces are there, so that the ending is comprehensible).
3. Clarify the most awkward/confusing bits of writing
4. Show it (off?) to a trusted professor
5. Done!
I'm an analytical person, so I like to know why everything works the way it does. But the conscious mind only understands so much--a person can know much more than they can articulate. I've got to start trusting my experience, training, and taste, and forget about justifying everything in the courthouse of my frontal lobe. This story doesn't need to prove itself to anyone--it doesn't have a chance at "perfection," but it does have a chance at being itself.
Beyond this particular story, the hope is: once I've got new editorial confidence and method in place, maybe I won't feel so daunted by the task of infusing life back into my complicated plot-piece of a manuscript. Maybe, in fact, it'll feel natural. And this manuscript will still be something that can connect.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Creative Calisthenics
My strengths:
--dialogue
--action
--ambiguously moral characters
--HUGE plots/premises
My weaknesses:
--interior monologue
--recognizable heroes/villains
--description.
I have the feeling my weaknesses stem from three causes:
1. natural tendencies/taste (hey, I was the archetypal Buffy-verse fan-girl for god's sake--no surprise my stories are packed with talking, fighting, and ammorality).
2. script-writing. In college, most of my focus was theatrical writing, and it (especially television) speaks to me in a way prose doesn't.
3. agent blogs and "how to" writing guides. Reading them has made me so fearful of boring the reader or padding a story or babbling that I've become much MUCH too harsh with my editing. This isn't a new revelation; I gave up reading "how to" books six months or so ago, and agent blogs since mid-summer.
Agents seemed, to me, to give off the impression that they're judges, arbiters of taste, and that my job is to please them. Which requires following the rules and keeping them entertained and blah blah blah. Now, I don't mean that agents feel this way, but rather: in my insecure, people-pleasing, out-of-touch way, I gave up my own agency (!)--my artistic identity and destiny--and tried to pass the responsability of my work to agents by listening to them to my work's detriment. I got scared of making my own rules and going my own way, and tried to use theirs, go theirs. I put them on a pedestal, and ruined my last novel.
Which I'm still coming to terms with. I've spent God knows how long on the edits, and it turns out my rough draft may be better.
So, in my quest to turn that into a good novel instead of a wordy script, I've decided to write in an entirely different way for my NaNo project.
The premise for my NaNo work is something I've wanted to "find time" for since early summer, and I love working on it.
And:
Unlike my previous manuscript, this one is in first person, and only has one main character.
It has clear villains, though they aren't black-hearted black hats (of course)
There is as much description and internal monologue as I can stuff in.
I've already learned that I have much more latent/instinctive knowledge about plot structure than I'd realized, that internal monologue and scene description aren't as frightening or foreign as I'd thought, and that "prep" becomes busy work relatively early in the writing process.
Of course, it's only the middle of week one, and I'm only about 10,000 words in...but so far I've been very pleasantly surprised with what "playing to my weaknesses" really means. Whether or not this manuscript ever comes of anything, it's doing wonders for my confidence and my sense of self as a writer.
--dialogue
--action
--ambiguously moral characters
--HUGE plots/premises
My weaknesses:
--interior monologue
--recognizable heroes/villains
--description.
I have the feeling my weaknesses stem from three causes:
1. natural tendencies/taste (hey, I was the archetypal Buffy-verse fan-girl for god's sake--no surprise my stories are packed with talking, fighting, and ammorality).
2. script-writing. In college, most of my focus was theatrical writing, and it (especially television) speaks to me in a way prose doesn't.
3. agent blogs and "how to" writing guides. Reading them has made me so fearful of boring the reader or padding a story or babbling that I've become much MUCH too harsh with my editing. This isn't a new revelation; I gave up reading "how to" books six months or so ago, and agent blogs since mid-summer.
Agents seemed, to me, to give off the impression that they're judges, arbiters of taste, and that my job is to please them. Which requires following the rules and keeping them entertained and blah blah blah. Now, I don't mean that agents feel this way, but rather: in my insecure, people-pleasing, out-of-touch way, I gave up my own agency (!)--my artistic identity and destiny--and tried to pass the responsability of my work to agents by listening to them to my work's detriment. I got scared of making my own rules and going my own way, and tried to use theirs, go theirs. I put them on a pedestal, and ruined my last novel.
Which I'm still coming to terms with. I've spent God knows how long on the edits, and it turns out my rough draft may be better.
So, in my quest to turn that into a good novel instead of a wordy script, I've decided to write in an entirely different way for my NaNo project.
The premise for my NaNo work is something I've wanted to "find time" for since early summer, and I love working on it.
And:
Unlike my previous manuscript, this one is in first person, and only has one main character.
It has clear villains, though they aren't black-hearted black hats (of course)
There is as much description and internal monologue as I can stuff in.
I've already learned that I have much more latent/instinctive knowledge about plot structure than I'd realized, that internal monologue and scene description aren't as frightening or foreign as I'd thought, and that "prep" becomes busy work relatively early in the writing process.
Of course, it's only the middle of week one, and I'm only about 10,000 words in...but so far I've been very pleasantly surprised with what "playing to my weaknesses" really means. Whether or not this manuscript ever comes of anything, it's doing wonders for my confidence and my sense of self as a writer.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
doomed if you don't
Sure, I started NaNoWriMo on time like the consceincious little A-student I am, but it wasn't that great. 1.5K in, and writing it out was a chore.
But yesterday I decided to try and get back to my personal quota-- 2.5K/day. Which meant I was supposed to have five thousand words down by close of business yesterday. I packed them in.
About half were inserted between words that were already there: long digressions about the characters' feelings, backstory, sensory detail, BLAH BLAH BLAH. The other half were mostly centered on meals; a picnic lunch and cold-leftovers for dinner. But it was FUN. And I'm actually pretty excited by what I have down.
Here are the great things about writing a long ass novel:
-- There's room to play.
-- Going inside the narrator's head is fair game.
-- It's ok not to know where you're going until you get there.
-- Or, conversely, it's ok to know where you want to go and let the path wander in no kind of straight line.
For me, writing yesterday was all about the way space can loosen inhibitions and waken the imagination. My story felt new and alive.
And the shorthand of saying: "I'm doing nano" is sure nice, too.
Ok, yeah, I'm a convert. Sometimes being a follower is kind of nice. Going on the warpath: at least not having to martial the troops gives a grunt more time to enjoy the journey.
But yesterday I decided to try and get back to my personal quota-- 2.5K/day. Which meant I was supposed to have five thousand words down by close of business yesterday. I packed them in.
About half were inserted between words that were already there: long digressions about the characters' feelings, backstory, sensory detail, BLAH BLAH BLAH. The other half were mostly centered on meals; a picnic lunch and cold-leftovers for dinner. But it was FUN. And I'm actually pretty excited by what I have down.
Here are the great things about writing a long ass novel:
-- There's room to play.
-- Going inside the narrator's head is fair game.
-- It's ok not to know where you're going until you get there.
-- Or, conversely, it's ok to know where you want to go and let the path wander in no kind of straight line.
For me, writing yesterday was all about the way space can loosen inhibitions and waken the imagination. My story felt new and alive.
And the shorthand of saying: "I'm doing nano" is sure nice, too.
Ok, yeah, I'm a convert. Sometimes being a follower is kind of nice. Going on the warpath: at least not having to martial the troops gives a grunt more time to enjoy the journey.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Novel Revelation
I've tried to read manuscripts before--whole ones, from people who have been working on them for loooong periods. And I've been burned.
The ones I've read have been by people who have never written anything before, and who don't think of themselves as writers. Not to say they weren't dedicated; after all, they'd drafted AND revised a novel-length manuscript, and gone to the trouble of taking a local class/joining a writing group/finding a critique partner.
BUT their manuscripts have generally not read like books. Reading one and commenting on it could become a huge chore, because they weren't novels, they were fictionalized reports. Usually, they'd come from a very smart person in an interesting field, who wanted to write an account of their work without breaking confidentiality or ruining their security clearance. So while the facts were often fascinating, there was little word play, few actual scenes, and tons of barely integrated facts.
What these people *really* wanted was to process their experience, and used fiction to do it.
Which, I suppose, is what all writers do to a degree; they work through things using their fictional characters and fictional situations. The difference isn't whether writing CAN be therapeutic, because it always CAN be--it's whether therapy or understanding is the aim, or if storytelling is.
And though therapeutic writing *can* be powerful and interesting, it's not especially suited for novel-length stories. At best, it lacks momentum, and at worst, it's inaccessible to anyone outside the writer's head.
Which is why reading the manuscript I'm "critiquing" now is such a revelation. I can only hope this is how my own manuscript reads: like a story. Sure, it's a draft, and there are flaws. But it's got the *flavor* of a book; this is the story of the most important and defining period of a fascinating man's life, and he's living in his own world, telling his own story, as opposed to operating in a pale shadow the writer's. This feels like it has its focus on the *audience* as opposed to the writer.
I started reading it yesterday, and I'm finished now--because it was *fun* to read. The story exists in its own world, with its own characters, and I love both the place and the people; when I'm gone from them for too long, I start longing to go back. That's artistry, as well as craftsmanship, and that's why this feels like the beginnings of a professional effort, and not an amateur one.
So, in a nutshell: is the difference between professional and amateur storytelling the difference between a story existing for the audience's pleasure and benefit as opposed to, for the author's?
The ones I've read have been by people who have never written anything before, and who don't think of themselves as writers. Not to say they weren't dedicated; after all, they'd drafted AND revised a novel-length manuscript, and gone to the trouble of taking a local class/joining a writing group/finding a critique partner.
BUT their manuscripts have generally not read like books. Reading one and commenting on it could become a huge chore, because they weren't novels, they were fictionalized reports. Usually, they'd come from a very smart person in an interesting field, who wanted to write an account of their work without breaking confidentiality or ruining their security clearance. So while the facts were often fascinating, there was little word play, few actual scenes, and tons of barely integrated facts.
What these people *really* wanted was to process their experience, and used fiction to do it.
Which, I suppose, is what all writers do to a degree; they work through things using their fictional characters and fictional situations. The difference isn't whether writing CAN be therapeutic, because it always CAN be--it's whether therapy or understanding is the aim, or if storytelling is.
And though therapeutic writing *can* be powerful and interesting, it's not especially suited for novel-length stories. At best, it lacks momentum, and at worst, it's inaccessible to anyone outside the writer's head.
Which is why reading the manuscript I'm "critiquing" now is such a revelation. I can only hope this is how my own manuscript reads: like a story. Sure, it's a draft, and there are flaws. But it's got the *flavor* of a book; this is the story of the most important and defining period of a fascinating man's life, and he's living in his own world, telling his own story, as opposed to operating in a pale shadow the writer's. This feels like it has its focus on the *audience* as opposed to the writer.
I started reading it yesterday, and I'm finished now--because it was *fun* to read. The story exists in its own world, with its own characters, and I love both the place and the people; when I'm gone from them for too long, I start longing to go back. That's artistry, as well as craftsmanship, and that's why this feels like the beginnings of a professional effort, and not an amateur one.
So, in a nutshell: is the difference between professional and amateur storytelling the difference between a story existing for the audience's pleasure and benefit as opposed to, for the author's?
Friday, October 30, 2009
the criticism dovetailed beautifully
I'm hoping NaNo will save my writing. I figure, with the high daily word quota and the rule against using pre-NaNo work, I'll be FORCED to blather a bit each day. Which will, hopefully, do wonders for my pacing.
It's awful; I'm so proud of the outlining and plot-work I did on my last manuscript, but now that I've gotten it as tight as it can possibly go, it turns out I've got to insert some breathing space. WHA?
How can that even be done? Where is there room for marshmellow gooeyness, and how can I find it? What do I even blather *about*? As it is, I figure you see everything you need to see, know everything you need to know...but everyone who reads it says it moves WAY too fast--they can't keep up, and they don't really want to. Wow, that's a blow.
And what makes it worse is that they all think my dialogue and language and even premise is really strong, that the problem is: the world I've created is an unfriendly one, that they don't want to be a part of. The characters are apparently all unlikeable, and the place is confusing, and things are flying around too fast.
The problem probably began in me constructing SUCH a tight, complicated outline, in me thinking like a scriptwriter and not a novelist. So while I'll have to re-edit for "story" (as opposed to plot) and GOD KNOWS what else.... I've decided to write a new manuscript using completely different methods.
That new method is: knowing the characters fairly well, knowing the premise fairly well, and letting the plot take shape. It might mean there is much less of a plot at all--but frankly, maybe novels are better off focusing on one thing well, as opposed to big screen style action.
So of course, I'm now wishing November first would never come. How am I going to go from analyzing the sh*t out of structure to just letting it flow?
In some ways this is an outgrowth of my summer-time decision: to be as authentic and truthful and even whimsical as possible. I think that vow was a good one; it brought out a lot more creativity and emotion--in my life, as well as my writing--than would otherwise have been possible. Now's the time for even more trust, even more wonder, even more serenity.
UUUUUUUUUUGH! I'll have to trust my own mind and the characters to take me through this novel, and that's tough for an over-educated over-analyzer like me.
It's awful; I'm so proud of the outlining and plot-work I did on my last manuscript, but now that I've gotten it as tight as it can possibly go, it turns out I've got to insert some breathing space. WHA?
How can that even be done? Where is there room for marshmellow gooeyness, and how can I find it? What do I even blather *about*? As it is, I figure you see everything you need to see, know everything you need to know...but everyone who reads it says it moves WAY too fast--they can't keep up, and they don't really want to. Wow, that's a blow.
And what makes it worse is that they all think my dialogue and language and even premise is really strong, that the problem is: the world I've created is an unfriendly one, that they don't want to be a part of. The characters are apparently all unlikeable, and the place is confusing, and things are flying around too fast.
The problem probably began in me constructing SUCH a tight, complicated outline, in me thinking like a scriptwriter and not a novelist. So while I'll have to re-edit for "story" (as opposed to plot) and GOD KNOWS what else.... I've decided to write a new manuscript using completely different methods.
That new method is: knowing the characters fairly well, knowing the premise fairly well, and letting the plot take shape. It might mean there is much less of a plot at all--but frankly, maybe novels are better off focusing on one thing well, as opposed to big screen style action.
So of course, I'm now wishing November first would never come. How am I going to go from analyzing the sh*t out of structure to just letting it flow?
In some ways this is an outgrowth of my summer-time decision: to be as authentic and truthful and even whimsical as possible. I think that vow was a good one; it brought out a lot more creativity and emotion--in my life, as well as my writing--than would otherwise have been possible. Now's the time for even more trust, even more wonder, even more serenity.
UUUUUUUUUUGH! I'll have to trust my own mind and the characters to take me through this novel, and that's tough for an over-educated over-analyzer like me.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
crawling inside is a slow but endlessly rewarding process
The following are my "lecture" notes for the Oct. 27th workshop I led in Baltimore.
STRUCTURE: CHARACTER NOTE-TAKING/OUTLINING
THE POINT:
A strong feel for your characters will give the reader a feeling of EMOTIONAL DEPTH, and helps the writer keep their story AUTHENTIC.
HOW TO TAKE CHARACTER NOTES:
Step 1: Inspiration
This is when a sound or image sticks in your mind, or a seemingly fully formed character starts talking in your head. Inspiration can happen anytime, anywhere—something need not seem inspirational to germinate into a fantastic story. The key is to accept and respect that inspiration, whatever its humble basis.
When it comes, get your entire brainstorm on paper as fast as you can. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make sense yet—this is just an exploration, not even a draft.
Tip: if you’re having trouble “finding” inspiration, try being completely quiet and staring out a window or wall for five or ten minutes. It’s the “ass in chair” method, and if you’re anything like me, you’ll get so bored within a minute or two that your imagination will start running wild.
Step 2: Fill in the Blanks
Let your newly found character stay on the fringes of your mind as you go about your days, just like you do with your friends or family. For example, when you’re shopping, think about what your character would like to buy; figure out what they can afford, where they work, who is important to them.
Whenever you hit on a fact that feels right to you, jot it down. This could happen anyplace, anytime, so keep paper and pen with you.
Once you’ve got a name, age, occupation, and a general feel for your character(s), try filling out surveys for them, or creating an anatomy (see handout). The longer your piece, the more detail you may want to include. And if your piece is longer than a prose poem or short story, you may want to do this for more than one character. As you get to know these “people,” their web of connections will probably grow; characters will introduce you to one another.
Sign of a good character: Contradictions
All people, and so all characters, have both virtues and vices. But what is best about a character is usually also what is worst—it all depends on the situation or context. For example, a character may be a very tough, strong leader. That grit may be fantastic for keeping her family in line, but it may be terrible when it comes to building a romantic relationship. A character may be bold and quick thinking, which comes in handy when he is bullied by his boss, but may make him flaky and irresponsible when dealing with his family. Think of virtues and vices as two sides of the same coin; often, a character need only have one strong virtue or vice in order to be compelling—but that characteristic will define the character, so choose carefully.
Step 3: Put your character in hell
Now that you know him or her inside out, you can probably figure out: what would be the worst possible situation for your character? What journey would force them to grow the most? Let your mind play over the possibilities for as long as it takes—once you know the worst obstacle your character could face, and what changes they will have to make within themselves to face it, you’ve got your premise and all you need of a plot.
Finding the right plot for your character may be the most important step. It will provide a world and structure in which you can explore your character’s many facets. And don’t worry; if you’ve created a character with contradictions and story potential, you’ll be able to mine his or her story for as long as it takes. Many TV shows (Ex. Dexter, the Sopranos) are, at heart, extended character studies. TV shows created by finding a fascinating character or group and putting him, her or them into an intriguing situation each week—and they run for years!
Sign of a good plot for your character: Paradox/Compromise of Self
Do your character’s inherent contradictions force her into a situation in which she cannot remain as she has been, and still get what she needs (her goal)? The plot must force your character to change—a plot is the story of a character’s change. The central dilemma your character faces must 1. spring from her personality 2. seem unconquerable because of that same personality.
Why is this particular situation happening to this particular person, and why are they uniquely unprepared for it? What must they do to prepare? The climax of the story is when the character finally makes the change they must in order to win her goal, but that climax must be hard won; she must have lost at least a piece of herself in the process (the piece that is lost is what is at stake).
Consider: What is your character's central dilemma? What is at stake for her/him? The more personal and important the stakes, the more power the climax will have.
Is This Useful?
Discovering the ins and outs of your character can be extremely useful during the drafting process. As you explore your character and try to figure out how they, personal limitations and all, can figure out their central dilemma, you shape your story. However, it can also be useful once you’ve gotten the draft down. Does the story feel authentic? A way to figure it out, is to see if your characters always act as themselves, and in their own best interests, instead of as unthinking cogs in your plot-machine.
When you’re doing macro-editing; i.e., homing in on your character’s stakes and making the climax as big and bold as possible, it can be useful to mine your character—to try and have them solve their problems for themselves, instead of imposing your solutions onto them. When you’re focused on the characters, what you’re really focusing on is finding the nugget of truth at the heart of your story—and that’s a great thing to think about when reviewing a finished draft, as well as while creating it.
To Sum Up:
The upside to basing your story’s structure on the characters is that you can create a powerful engine for your story. As long as you’ve found a character with potential to mine, you can keep the story going indefinitely.
The downside is that when you allow your character to lead the story, you may create a series of incidents for your characters to get through, rather than a unified plot. Without a full thematic/emotional arc, your story can end up feeling hallow and unfinished.
EXAMPLE: “Star Wars,” Anakin Skywalker
Character Contradiction: Love
He loves people (ie, his mother, his wife, his mentor/surrogate father Obi Won). Yet Jedi Knights must be selfless, and think only of the group--they can't have attachments, and they can't let people become attached to them. He cannot love everyone (as a Jedi) and individuals (as a man) at once.
Paradox:
If Anakin keeps love in his life- if he stays a part of life at all- he can't be a Jedi anymore... but if he isn't a Jedi anymore, he no longer deserves his friend's/family's love.
His struggle is between his ability/need to give all of himself (to love, to ambition, etc) and the healthful rationality of temperance, moderation, and reserve.
EXAMPLE: Twilight, Bella Swan
Character Contradiction: Obedience
She is an obedient, “good” daughter, but she’s also in thrall to a powerful love. She cannot be obedient both to her parents and to her boyfriend/her heart.
Paradox:
Bella's struggle in Twilight is between keeping her man but changing herself, or losing her man but staying true to herself.
In both Anakin's and Bella's stories, the dilemma is: how much of myself should I compromise? How much can I compromise and remain me?
Though both “Star Wars” and Twilight have been panned for their lack of artistry, they are compelling to millions of people—because both are carried by characters trapped in an unsolvable personal paradox. The tension of a character’s dilemma can be enough to drive a story—even over the course of a series.
STRUCTURE: CHARACTER NOTE-TAKING/OUTLINING
THE POINT:
A strong feel for your characters will give the reader a feeling of EMOTIONAL DEPTH, and helps the writer keep their story AUTHENTIC.
HOW TO TAKE CHARACTER NOTES:
Step 1: Inspiration
This is when a sound or image sticks in your mind, or a seemingly fully formed character starts talking in your head. Inspiration can happen anytime, anywhere—something need not seem inspirational to germinate into a fantastic story. The key is to accept and respect that inspiration, whatever its humble basis.
When it comes, get your entire brainstorm on paper as fast as you can. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make sense yet—this is just an exploration, not even a draft.
Tip: if you’re having trouble “finding” inspiration, try being completely quiet and staring out a window or wall for five or ten minutes. It’s the “ass in chair” method, and if you’re anything like me, you’ll get so bored within a minute or two that your imagination will start running wild.
Step 2: Fill in the Blanks
Let your newly found character stay on the fringes of your mind as you go about your days, just like you do with your friends or family. For example, when you’re shopping, think about what your character would like to buy; figure out what they can afford, where they work, who is important to them.
Whenever you hit on a fact that feels right to you, jot it down. This could happen anyplace, anytime, so keep paper and pen with you.
Once you’ve got a name, age, occupation, and a general feel for your character(s), try filling out surveys for them, or creating an anatomy (see handout). The longer your piece, the more detail you may want to include. And if your piece is longer than a prose poem or short story, you may want to do this for more than one character. As you get to know these “people,” their web of connections will probably grow; characters will introduce you to one another.
Sign of a good character: Contradictions
All people, and so all characters, have both virtues and vices. But what is best about a character is usually also what is worst—it all depends on the situation or context. For example, a character may be a very tough, strong leader. That grit may be fantastic for keeping her family in line, but it may be terrible when it comes to building a romantic relationship. A character may be bold and quick thinking, which comes in handy when he is bullied by his boss, but may make him flaky and irresponsible when dealing with his family. Think of virtues and vices as two sides of the same coin; often, a character need only have one strong virtue or vice in order to be compelling—but that characteristic will define the character, so choose carefully.
Step 3: Put your character in hell
Now that you know him or her inside out, you can probably figure out: what would be the worst possible situation for your character? What journey would force them to grow the most? Let your mind play over the possibilities for as long as it takes—once you know the worst obstacle your character could face, and what changes they will have to make within themselves to face it, you’ve got your premise and all you need of a plot.
Finding the right plot for your character may be the most important step. It will provide a world and structure in which you can explore your character’s many facets. And don’t worry; if you’ve created a character with contradictions and story potential, you’ll be able to mine his or her story for as long as it takes. Many TV shows (Ex. Dexter, the Sopranos) are, at heart, extended character studies. TV shows created by finding a fascinating character or group and putting him, her or them into an intriguing situation each week—and they run for years!
Sign of a good plot for your character: Paradox/Compromise of Self
Do your character’s inherent contradictions force her into a situation in which she cannot remain as she has been, and still get what she needs (her goal)? The plot must force your character to change—a plot is the story of a character’s change. The central dilemma your character faces must 1. spring from her personality 2. seem unconquerable because of that same personality.
Why is this particular situation happening to this particular person, and why are they uniquely unprepared for it? What must they do to prepare? The climax of the story is when the character finally makes the change they must in order to win her goal, but that climax must be hard won; she must have lost at least a piece of herself in the process (the piece that is lost is what is at stake).
Consider: What is your character's central dilemma? What is at stake for her/him? The more personal and important the stakes, the more power the climax will have.
Is This Useful?
Discovering the ins and outs of your character can be extremely useful during the drafting process. As you explore your character and try to figure out how they, personal limitations and all, can figure out their central dilemma, you shape your story. However, it can also be useful once you’ve gotten the draft down. Does the story feel authentic? A way to figure it out, is to see if your characters always act as themselves, and in their own best interests, instead of as unthinking cogs in your plot-machine.
When you’re doing macro-editing; i.e., homing in on your character’s stakes and making the climax as big and bold as possible, it can be useful to mine your character—to try and have them solve their problems for themselves, instead of imposing your solutions onto them. When you’re focused on the characters, what you’re really focusing on is finding the nugget of truth at the heart of your story—and that’s a great thing to think about when reviewing a finished draft, as well as while creating it.
To Sum Up:
The upside to basing your story’s structure on the characters is that you can create a powerful engine for your story. As long as you’ve found a character with potential to mine, you can keep the story going indefinitely.
The downside is that when you allow your character to lead the story, you may create a series of incidents for your characters to get through, rather than a unified plot. Without a full thematic/emotional arc, your story can end up feeling hallow and unfinished.
EXAMPLE: “Star Wars,” Anakin Skywalker
Character Contradiction: Love
He loves people (ie, his mother, his wife, his mentor/surrogate father Obi Won). Yet Jedi Knights must be selfless, and think only of the group--they can't have attachments, and they can't let people become attached to them. He cannot love everyone (as a Jedi) and individuals (as a man) at once.
Paradox:
If Anakin keeps love in his life- if he stays a part of life at all- he can't be a Jedi anymore... but if he isn't a Jedi anymore, he no longer deserves his friend's/family's love.
His struggle is between his ability/need to give all of himself (to love, to ambition, etc) and the healthful rationality of temperance, moderation, and reserve.
EXAMPLE: Twilight, Bella Swan
Character Contradiction: Obedience
She is an obedient, “good” daughter, but she’s also in thrall to a powerful love. She cannot be obedient both to her parents and to her boyfriend/her heart.
Paradox:
Bella's struggle in Twilight is between keeping her man but changing herself, or losing her man but staying true to herself.
In both Anakin's and Bella's stories, the dilemma is: how much of myself should I compromise? How much can I compromise and remain me?
Though both “Star Wars” and Twilight have been panned for their lack of artistry, they are compelling to millions of people—because both are carried by characters trapped in an unsolvable personal paradox. The tension of a character’s dilemma can be enough to drive a story—even over the course of a series.
Friday, October 23, 2009
miracles, in government buildings
I just wrote an essay about my writing aspirations that turned into one about the joys of teaching.
And I meant all of it, despite yesterday's post. Well, not despite-- in addition to. Who says white is the new black?
On the one hand, teaching--and I've done a fair amount, though I've never had my own class for the course of an academic year--is awful. You're in charge of twenty-five or thirty moving bodies all at once, and all of those minds have got to learn something while you're keeping them safe and engaged. Sometimes it just doesn't gel. In fact, it often devolves (at least at the K-12 level) into babysitting.
BUT
When it doesn't, it is amazing. Just in the past month, I've had the same kids over and over in math class and have actually helped them learn. There's a moment when they figure out a new concept that feels like a miracle-- real, true communication. The teacher has just taken an abstract concept that can't be directly articulated and passed it from her head to a kid's. How miraculous is that?
Just because it happens every day doesn't mean it isn't a miracle-- and yes, that word is WAYYYY overused. But isn't attempting that kind of ineffable communication a writer's life work? It's like watching a reader read your novel and digest it and connect it to her own life, all at once and one-on-one.
So yeah, when I'm exhausted because I haven't had enough time to form the ideas (do the actual writing) in my own mind, or when I'm just physically busted from trying to teach each day all day, it feels AWFUL. There must be balance between forming the ideas and communicating them. But that balance is possible, and finding it is the dream of every teacher, writer, director, actor, composer, painter, sculptor, artist, hell-- maybe every manager. Like all beginners, I suppose, I'm still working to find mine.
And I meant all of it, despite yesterday's post. Well, not despite-- in addition to. Who says white is the new black?
On the one hand, teaching--and I've done a fair amount, though I've never had my own class for the course of an academic year--is awful. You're in charge of twenty-five or thirty moving bodies all at once, and all of those minds have got to learn something while you're keeping them safe and engaged. Sometimes it just doesn't gel. In fact, it often devolves (at least at the K-12 level) into babysitting.
BUT
When it doesn't, it is amazing. Just in the past month, I've had the same kids over and over in math class and have actually helped them learn. There's a moment when they figure out a new concept that feels like a miracle-- real, true communication. The teacher has just taken an abstract concept that can't be directly articulated and passed it from her head to a kid's. How miraculous is that?
Just because it happens every day doesn't mean it isn't a miracle-- and yes, that word is WAYYYY overused. But isn't attempting that kind of ineffable communication a writer's life work? It's like watching a reader read your novel and digest it and connect it to her own life, all at once and one-on-one.
So yeah, when I'm exhausted because I haven't had enough time to form the ideas (do the actual writing) in my own mind, or when I'm just physically busted from trying to teach each day all day, it feels AWFUL. There must be balance between forming the ideas and communicating them. But that balance is possible, and finding it is the dream of every teacher, writer, director, actor, composer, painter, sculptor, artist, hell-- maybe every manager. Like all beginners, I suppose, I'm still working to find mine.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Thoroughbred
On Tuesday, I led a workshop in Baltimore-- my first time leading an entire workshop on my own. It's for ex-offenders, and I guess the career center that sponsors it considers the workshopping at least vaguely therapeutic... but my professor introduced it to me a couple years ago when all my writing experience was shaped by college, and I've always thought of it as a class rather than an ex-offender-focused artsy version of AA.
So I prepped a lecture and a few writing exercises, and drove an hour or two to a mall (the career center is in it, who knows why?) in which EVERYONE stared at me and snickered and acted weird... I think because I was the only non-African American person there. Of course, that made me feel awful. Because as a teacher, I'd been standing out all freaking day, alone with the kids and wearing my "goody two shoes leader" mask for seven hours straight. So I got to the mall and got to put on the "dumbass white girl" mask for a while, and then shove on the "younger than you but more educated and don't worry, not threatening at all" one.
And it was great hearing and discussing the workshoppers' stories, written right there on the fly. It was awesome to talk to them about plotting and structure, and see how new and exciting some of them found it. It's wonderful knowing that my education can be infectious.
After all, I'm terrible at following rules. I never read directions, and find people who do endlessly exasperating. So it should be a relief to lead class all day in the high school, then drive over and lead a quasi-therapeutic workshop for an extra couple hours, right? It should be a relief to be in charge. But it was exhausting, and there was that tinge of resentment: why should I help you, when nobody is helping me?
It was so much fun being a student. My whole job was to figure things out, and tons of people had been hired and masses of equipment bought specifically to help me do it. But now my job is to make sure *other* people figure things out, and while it can be satisfying, it's nowhere near as exhilarating as focusing on the concepts themselves. I've got to do all my writing-related learning in private, on the day's fringes.
Guess I'm an "idea," not a "people," person. Guess I'm not very pragmatic. Guess I'm selfish at heart.
This post has no point, except to say: how come teaching means you can't push *yourself* in your craft? Maybe I'm doing something wrong, but it's so frustrating to help other people do beginner versions of what I yearn every second to do myself. It's so frustrating constantly dragging people along, trying to get them caught up. It makes me think: is there actually a point in getting good at this stuff? If, past a certain point, you're expected to shove your own learning aside and simply pass on what you can? I feel like a used up has-been, at 23.
So, yeah: I do the critiques, I answer the questions, I push myself to be as clear and concise and honest and thoughtful as possible, and yes, teaching IS difficult... but not in the way learning is. Teaching is one kind of exercise in the limits of communication, and learning another, and frankly, the learning kind is so so so so much more fun.
Guess the moral of the story is: work less, write more.
So I prepped a lecture and a few writing exercises, and drove an hour or two to a mall (the career center is in it, who knows why?) in which EVERYONE stared at me and snickered and acted weird... I think because I was the only non-African American person there. Of course, that made me feel awful. Because as a teacher, I'd been standing out all freaking day, alone with the kids and wearing my "goody two shoes leader" mask for seven hours straight. So I got to the mall and got to put on the "dumbass white girl" mask for a while, and then shove on the "younger than you but more educated and don't worry, not threatening at all" one.
And it was great hearing and discussing the workshoppers' stories, written right there on the fly. It was awesome to talk to them about plotting and structure, and see how new and exciting some of them found it. It's wonderful knowing that my education can be infectious.
After all, I'm terrible at following rules. I never read directions, and find people who do endlessly exasperating. So it should be a relief to lead class all day in the high school, then drive over and lead a quasi-therapeutic workshop for an extra couple hours, right? It should be a relief to be in charge. But it was exhausting, and there was that tinge of resentment: why should I help you, when nobody is helping me?
It was so much fun being a student. My whole job was to figure things out, and tons of people had been hired and masses of equipment bought specifically to help me do it. But now my job is to make sure *other* people figure things out, and while it can be satisfying, it's nowhere near as exhilarating as focusing on the concepts themselves. I've got to do all my writing-related learning in private, on the day's fringes.
Guess I'm an "idea," not a "people," person. Guess I'm not very pragmatic. Guess I'm selfish at heart.
This post has no point, except to say: how come teaching means you can't push *yourself* in your craft? Maybe I'm doing something wrong, but it's so frustrating to help other people do beginner versions of what I yearn every second to do myself. It's so frustrating constantly dragging people along, trying to get them caught up. It makes me think: is there actually a point in getting good at this stuff? If, past a certain point, you're expected to shove your own learning aside and simply pass on what you can? I feel like a used up has-been, at 23.
So, yeah: I do the critiques, I answer the questions, I push myself to be as clear and concise and honest and thoughtful as possible, and yes, teaching IS difficult... but not in the way learning is. Teaching is one kind of exercise in the limits of communication, and learning another, and frankly, the learning kind is so so so so much more fun.
Guess the moral of the story is: work less, write more.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Cosmic Dissonance
As a reader, I love:
STRUCTURE
Momentum
Emphasis on cause and effect
Beginning-Middle-End
Intricate
LANGUAGE
Informal
Fast-paced
Colorful
SETTING
A slice of (emotionally foreign) life
Exotic in any way-- that could as well mean American suburban as ancient Egyptian
CHARACTER
Morally hazy
Is that what I write? Should it be?
STRUCTURE
Momentum
Emphasis on cause and effect
Beginning-Middle-End
Intricate
LANGUAGE
Informal
Fast-paced
Colorful
SETTING
A slice of (emotionally foreign) life
Exotic in any way-- that could as well mean American suburban as ancient Egyptian
CHARACTER
Morally hazy
Is that what I write? Should it be?
Friday, October 9, 2009
The Control Continuum
How important is being true to one's own vision? How faithful can one even be?
Being true to oneself is the only way to create truthful work
V.
The writer understands the subtexts and themes and intricacies the *least*, because she is too close to the work to see it clearly.
I've worked over the past six months or so to be totally myself in my writing, readers be damned. Not that I threw all structure, grammar, or pragmatism to the wind... I've just tried to become more comfortable with the unknowable, even when the unknowable is my own mind. I've tried to stop trying to control *everything*, and let myself (as a writer, and my work as art) loosen up, be free, shelter from judgment-- relish instinct.
But now that I've found a novel writing groove, and a short story writing groove (finally!), I've got to make this claymation.
The claymation's been sitting in my head for months and months, and now that I've got people who want to see it, I've finally got to finish the damn thing. And it's bizarre to have full control over an entire production like this.
1. Find the idea
2. Write the script
3. Create the clay creatures
4. Build the set
5. Film
6. Edit
7. Soundtrack
8. Get it out there
I'm on the tail-end of #4 right now, and it's suddenly hitting me that even if I *don't* like it, I'm in total control of this project-- even down to the production values. The (lazy) demon on my shoulder says, "cut a few corners-- who cares?" The (masochistic) angel on my shoulder says, "You'll care, if you're going to show this to anybody, knowing it's not your best possible work."
The control issue is bizarre in writing, I think, because each media needs such different levels of it. On the one hand, there are short stories that are limited enough in scope that they can flourish on an absolute minimum of plot, and a maximum of whimsy. Novels require a bit more in terms of logistics, simply because they're so big-- but their logistics are all writerly. No extra lay-out of money required to help those logistics along. I think the medium that requires the MOST writing control is television.
Television writing is *incredibly* constrained; you've got a certain set of characters, a certain location, a certain basic set-up, thematic limitations, and everything's got to be done to a strict time/page/action formula (approx. 8-pg pulses), and all in about 55 script format pages.
And yes, with television writing there are certain physical concerns-- please don't expect the sets or the CGI to be fancy. Please don't require athletic feats that will take weeks to prepare. But no way you've got to stage the thing.
That's where the play/movie continuum takes over; not only have you got to write the thing with at least a novelistic level of writerly control, you've (at least as an unknown) got to actually make it *happen* in a physical way.
So on the one hand, I've taken great pains to give up control and give more say to instinct for my short story writing-- which has taken a turn for the much better. And on the other, I'm making a movie-- in which I've got to build the "actors" no less.
Why am I making myself schizophrenic? Well, because it's fun. And fascinating, to stretch those control/instinct muscles in all kinds of new ways.
Being true to oneself is the only way to create truthful work
V.
The writer understands the subtexts and themes and intricacies the *least*, because she is too close to the work to see it clearly.
I've worked over the past six months or so to be totally myself in my writing, readers be damned. Not that I threw all structure, grammar, or pragmatism to the wind... I've just tried to become more comfortable with the unknowable, even when the unknowable is my own mind. I've tried to stop trying to control *everything*, and let myself (as a writer, and my work as art) loosen up, be free, shelter from judgment-- relish instinct.
But now that I've found a novel writing groove, and a short story writing groove (finally!), I've got to make this claymation.
The claymation's been sitting in my head for months and months, and now that I've got people who want to see it, I've finally got to finish the damn thing. And it's bizarre to have full control over an entire production like this.
1. Find the idea
2. Write the script
3. Create the clay creatures
4. Build the set
5. Film
6. Edit
7. Soundtrack
8. Get it out there
I'm on the tail-end of #4 right now, and it's suddenly hitting me that even if I *don't* like it, I'm in total control of this project-- even down to the production values. The (lazy) demon on my shoulder says, "cut a few corners-- who cares?" The (masochistic) angel on my shoulder says, "You'll care, if you're going to show this to anybody, knowing it's not your best possible work."
The control issue is bizarre in writing, I think, because each media needs such different levels of it. On the one hand, there are short stories that are limited enough in scope that they can flourish on an absolute minimum of plot, and a maximum of whimsy. Novels require a bit more in terms of logistics, simply because they're so big-- but their logistics are all writerly. No extra lay-out of money required to help those logistics along. I think the medium that requires the MOST writing control is television.
Television writing is *incredibly* constrained; you've got a certain set of characters, a certain location, a certain basic set-up, thematic limitations, and everything's got to be done to a strict time/page/action formula (approx. 8-pg pulses), and all in about 55 script format pages.
And yes, with television writing there are certain physical concerns-- please don't expect the sets or the CGI to be fancy. Please don't require athletic feats that will take weeks to prepare. But no way you've got to stage the thing.
That's where the play/movie continuum takes over; not only have you got to write the thing with at least a novelistic level of writerly control, you've (at least as an unknown) got to actually make it *happen* in a physical way.
So on the one hand, I've taken great pains to give up control and give more say to instinct for my short story writing-- which has taken a turn for the much better. And on the other, I'm making a movie-- in which I've got to build the "actors" no less.
Why am I making myself schizophrenic? Well, because it's fun. And fascinating, to stretch those control/instinct muscles in all kinds of new ways.
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