In the Relm of the Smiling Grizzlies

After the glory of finding a wonderful new writing group, I coasted into my new (first, since college) class/workshop.... I figured everything would be glorious, until (of course) the workshop-ers discovered I was young and not especially "literary" and everything hit SPLAT!

Ok, so maybe it was the horrible drive there, and maybe it was the horrible drive back (where is everyone going on a Saturday afternoon?!)-- maybe the actual class won't be bad. God knows I can't give up after the one session.. I've been counting on this workshop:

1. Giving me revision guidance (I've never revised a novel-length story before, and after beating my head against the wall for months, I realize I need help).

2. Giving me a place to workshop with committed, open-minded, experienced writers.

3. Giving me a chance to meet more published writers, and hopefully, get a little guidance from them, too-- or, from the teacher, at least.

On the one hand, the group does seem serious, friendly, and interesting. And the teacher seems confident.

But on the other: she seemed so *so* so incredibly dismissive of anything without "literary" stamped across it. And at the tail-end of class she asked for questions, but didn't actually answer any (she seemed in a huge rush to leave). In fact, we didn't learn a damn thing today.

This class is costing me a few hundred dollars-- dollars which I desperately need. I'm going to stick with it, because I do think some of the writers will be valuable as "eyes"... but I've never felt like a second class citizen-- or so pre-judged-- based on 1. my age 2. my concept before.

OOOOOH wait, not true. That's exactly how I felt last time I went to an event at this writing center. Which led to a long period of shaken-up clogged-up horribly unproductive mess.

The atmosphere at this center might just be wrong for me; it's so stodgy, and you can cut the desperation there with a knife. All these grizzled gray-heads running around looking anxious and WAY too smiley. There aren't any schools around here with programs I can actually afford, and the community writer's groups are generally too loosey goosey-- I'm usually the most experienced person in them.

Of course, I seem to be at least one of the most experienced people in this workshop, too.

How horrible is that? By experienced, I mean that I've churned out a lot of material, participated in a lot of workshops (and writers' groups, at this point), read all the how-to books and articles, belong to all the forums, have gone as far as I possibly can on my own, in terms of learning craft, stretching myself, and committing myself to writing. Of course, I've never published anything outside of school, and feel like a gigantic failure.

Maybe I should start some kind of (online?) group for young writers? Only 22-25 year old's allowed? What's the solution? Who can help? Why must everyone be falsely smiley and seething with jealousy? Or alternatively, so dismissive they barely look you in the face? Why can't everyone just chillax a bit?

Though, when all these "literary" premises could be solved by giving the protagonist a weed stash maybe I shouldn't be surprised that everyone seems so anxious and uptight.

I knoooooooow (she whined)

The story I'm working on has no plot. It's great otherwise.

How do I get it a plot, and STAT?

All the storylines I come up with fit all right but.... nothing's clicking.

What happens next? How do you get a piece onto its "skeleton"?

IN YO FACE

I got rejected today.

The poor pathetic piece was a five-hundred word thought/question/wonder-blob that I liked and thought was fun.

I sent it to a magazine that 1. doesn't pay 2. is notoriously hard to get into. But their pass has sent me reeling. Why is rejection so hard?

I'm great with criticism, especially of my writing. I'm the veteran of a hundred workshops, and must have a face that begs for advice. But even when I'm feeling good, a rejection like this crushes in my chest.

Not that I've had so, so many "passes"-- I barely submit. But each one hurts so much.

*This* is why I want to go to grad school. I don't know why my friends and professors seem to like my writing, or why nobody outside of academia wants to publish it. And since publishers/magazines won't help, guess I'll have to ask a larger portion of academia.

(Maybe problem solving isn't my gift).

Nevertheless, I'll push on. Submit twice a week forever. Because I've seen too many people commit to other people or making a living or blah blah and let their actual dreams drift into the ether, and because giving up certainly doesn't work. Still, there comes a point when you have to wonder if you're the Rudy of the writing world.

I wish I knew: do editors read my submissions for one line, snarl, and toss it aside? (Of course, they must. For time management above all. They prioritize like anyone else).

Will hard work and perserverance get me more than busted up knees, the broken nose, the self-indulgent, denial-lined memories?

Quick: Where's the Crook to Get Her Offstage?

Lullabies for Little Criminals by Heather O'Neill kept me up all night.

It's the story of an 11/12/13 year old girl growing up in Montreal's red light district. She's got a junkie father, dead mother, and lots of neighborhood friends. Sort of Maniac Magee for grown ups. And without the race stuff.

It's a beautiful book: chock full of interesting images and insights. It reads like you're in a mystical child's head.

BUT-- the last eighth almost ruins it. It turns into a saccharine, weirdly Victorian social novel. Duex Ex Machinas creak around, and I half expected the kid to succumb to opium addiction or willful drowning.

AND-- by that point, I was gritting my teeth because there is a metaphor in LITERALLY EVERY SINGLE PARAGRAPH. The metaphors are beautiful and true and blah blah, but they're also coming so fast it's a fucking metaphor blizzard.

The novel is definitely worth reading-- I got it out of the library and am thinking of buying it just to see it on my shelf. But O'Neill, couldn't you have kept it together for fifty extra pages? Or just chopped them off wholesale? Not everything needs to be tied with a bow. It's ok to just stop if the character's arc is over. There needn't be redemption and hope and coming together and all that Happy Holiday crap.

I wish I had stopped before the last eighth, but otherwise it's the book I wish I'd been smart enough to write.

Pain and Perfection

Why is the inner critic such a fucking BITCH?

Can't she just shut the fuck UP sometimes?

Why must she comment on every little thing I do: oooooh, that's ok, for *you* I guess, but it could be better!

I'm drowning her in words to shut her up. 5k/day. Hopefully, I'll kill her outright.

(And that's a perfectly good use of the word "hopefully." It's a minor clause, and creates a certain tone for the sentence. (Many) grammarians agree: it's part of the "honestly" and "frankly" group).

Bye-bye bitch (until I need you again, at the end of the story, and during draft two of my novel).

When Will the Storm Break?

This short story’s got a funny/interesting locked-in-a-room-together concept. But I’m a thousand words in and nothing’s happening. Plus, those thousand words have taken two days to write. What’s up with my pacing?


In terms of nothing happening: I think I’m used to novel pacing, where there’s room to go slow. And I think it’s also a problem that I don’t have an AWESOME central image for the story to hurtle towards (yet). Got to think on that, for sure.


In terms of my writing speed: Ok, ok, so I’ve been wondering if fast is really the way to go. Sometimes it is—mostly, I sometimes need to pound something out in one sitting. My TV script was like that, and I think a lot of short stories are like that. If I let them simmer too much I (a) lose the thread/tone/atmosphere (b) skip over the daily warming up because I’m so anxious to get today’s bit of the thing over with. If the whole story’s got to get done in a sitting, I’m forced to, yanno, actually sit for a while and work through the throat-clearing.


But lately I've also been cutting myself yards and yards of slack. It’s my real vacation time, and the last few weeks I’ll have before my friend leaves the country—I want to relish it. Obviously, I’ve got to write some (or I’ll go insane) but it’s important to savor life outside of writing—I can let myself get so consumed and that’s when I get anxious… and write badly (Catch 789 of writing well: past a certain point, the harder you press, the harder it is). All this means, though: I get a few hundred words down and skip on with my day. Not the best thing for pacing/momentum.


So: today I’m going to (1) think of a HAUNTING/BIZARRE/BEAUTIFUL image to center my story around (2) write it until it’s done.

Truth and Consequences, nm

What I've learned this year so far:

Plot is inseparable from structure.

Structure gives a story momentum.

Momentum and plot allow/create an interesting, inevitable, satisfying resolution.

But concentrating too much on structure, plot, and pre-planning can suck out a piece's life.

So: Structure/Plot/Outlining is necessary, but dangerous.

I've decided lately to put novel writing on the back-burner and concentrate on short stories-- they were most of my focus in college, but I haven't written any since.

Short stories had: verve, energy, voice, playfulness.  

They did not have: structure, momentum, satisfying resolutions.

My current work is the opposite.  

I think my problem is authenticity.  In an effort to write "correctly" I haven't trusted my instincts enough... so I've been on a sort of hiatus, and using a private diary to open myself back up.  I felt that a public blog was only helping my emotional crippling/cramping.  I feel more in touch with myself and my needs and my views now, than I have for two years-- I feel free.

But I haven't only opened up to myself-- I've had a close confidant over the last few months.  As I said to him (for me, for now) writing requires a certain amount of loneliness.  If I can communicate all I want to by hanging out and talking to my friends, why put myself through the financially inconvenient and ego-bruising ringer?  What if I can either feel connected to the people in my life, or connected to my writing?  But as I've unclenched, I've realized that even though he's always willing to *listen*, I can't always say what I mean without fiction.  

Turns out, I've been training myself to be a hack, and 1. I'm not technically proficient enough to be one 2. what's the point of that?  

My ultimate goal right now is to put myself and my truth into my work as bravely and completely as possible.   I'm still trying to strengthen my work by using what I now know about structure and planning and the mechanics of a strong story.  I'm still trying to use my analytical abilities in my writing.  But mostly, I'm trying to find authenticity-- the place between what happens and how it feels.