Year 6 -- Week 29 -- December 15, 2003
My novel is prepared to weather the cold realities of the market place.
December 15, 2003
It's time for my novel to leave the nest to find its way in the world. Yes, it's my baby, and it seems just like yesterday that it was simply the kernel of an idea in my head, but that was six years ago. And now look at it -- over 100,000 words chock full of characters and challenges.
But if I spend just a little more time, I'm sure it could be better. The problem is, I could rewrite forever, and part of me wants to do just that to avoid facing the inevitable rejection that comes with the process of publication.
Rejection isn't personal and it's subjective, but knowing this doesn't make it any easier to swallow. But this week I will send the novel out, and while I wait for a response, I will continue to write.
Wayne Gretzky claims that he is most grateful for the gift of loving to practice. Yes, he was graced with talent, but it was the hours of practicing that truly made the difference. If he hadn't loved being on a rink every day, his talent would never have blossomed.
I've always known that my gift was the ability to focus and work hard, to recognize what I didn't know and then learn it. It is the journey, not the result that turns me on. What I might lack in pure literary talent, I surely make up for in hustle. I learn, I adapt, I improve, and most important, I don't give up.
And so as 'The Sound of Money' wanders through the cold corridors of the publishing industry, I will keep working. I've got more short stories to write, several ideas for novels to mull, and of course the songs, lots of them, just waiting to be written.
All I need is one person to see the potential, and then look out…
Until then, it is my duty not to give up on myself. And so as 2003 comes to a close, I look ahead knowing that my best work is still to come….
Thanks for reading. See you in 2004.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Monday, December 8, 2003
Fire and a good book
Year 6 -- Week 28 -- December 8, 2003
The perfect day for a fire and a good book.
We had over a foot of snow on Saturday under blizzard conditions. It was the perfect day to cozy up to a fire and read a book. And yet my guess is, most people stuck inside didn't reach for a novel.
Many non-readers claim they'd like to, but they just don't have the time. A novel is a big commitment, fair enough, but why is the short story even less popular?
Perhaps the short story is misunderstood. Even amongst writers there's controversy. Some believe that the short story and novel are so different, one cannot excel at both. Obviously many writers don't believe that; some, perhaps, should.
Beginning writers are often deceived by its simplicity. Many readers are confused.
The short story needs a PR consultant, somebody to explain how it works. It's as if the literati don't want people to know. And yet, the short story could be the perfect ambassador for fiction. Of course, the literati scoffed at Steven King's National Book Award and slammed the Harry Potter series as derivative.
Last week I gave Ed, a friend, a short story to read; his response typifies the short story's PR problem. First let me state that Ed is well educated and reads lots of non-fiction (note: women far out number men in the fiction reading department).
Ed makes a brief appearance in my story and I thought he might enjoy the cameo. Within a week, Ed was back to me. "I only got the first five pages," he said, "but it seemed pretty good."
"Five pages?"
"Yeah, up to the point where the guy is sipping wine."
"Actually," I said, "that's the ending."
"Oh."
I went on to explain the concept of a short story and Ed, feeling rather dumb, quickly added that he loved the writing, the characters, and of course, his cameo. But it was like trying to explain a punch line. I should also note that a magazine has already called, interested in the story -- in theory, this eliminates the possibility that the writing was off base.
This isn't the first time readers wanted to know more about what happened next in the story. Or why did 'Y' happen? Or how come we don't know more about this or that? And even at the Squaw Valley Writers Conference, many of the attendees asked similar questions, as did a few of the instructors.
I've certainly struggled with the short story, endings in particular. In the early days, I dazzled myself with contrived plot lines that neatly converged at the end, or with clever twist to throw the reader off. Looking up 'epiphany' in the dictionary didn't help.
I could have saved a lot of time if Louis Menand's 'New Yorker' comments on the short story had come out sooner. His explanation clarified what's taken me years to figure out. You can find his view on the subject within his commentary of Updike's new collection (the December 1 '03 issue). In the article, Menand quotes Joyce and Poe, and compares the art of short fiction to a golf swing.
For me, a short story is the opening of a window into a world. Fleeting as it might be, in the hands of an accomplished writer, we get powerful insights into the human condition without the burden of knowing too much. It can be incredibly satisfying, more so than ten minutes of Sports Center, a read of 'Time' magazine on the john -- starting from the back of course, or 'Howard" on the radio during the daily commute.
If only more people knew how great the short story was, a writer might have more opportunity to place fiction. As it is, the short story is available to only a select few, and that is everyone's loss.
--------
In just a few days, this posting has generated passionate responses. If you feel strongly about the short story, or have an idea on how to get more people interested, drop me an email. In a future entry I'll share some of those views -- anonymously if you wish. Thanks a lot!
The perfect day for a fire and a good book.
We had over a foot of snow on Saturday under blizzard conditions. It was the perfect day to cozy up to a fire and read a book. And yet my guess is, most people stuck inside didn't reach for a novel.
Many non-readers claim they'd like to, but they just don't have the time. A novel is a big commitment, fair enough, but why is the short story even less popular?
Perhaps the short story is misunderstood. Even amongst writers there's controversy. Some believe that the short story and novel are so different, one cannot excel at both. Obviously many writers don't believe that; some, perhaps, should.
Beginning writers are often deceived by its simplicity. Many readers are confused.
The short story needs a PR consultant, somebody to explain how it works. It's as if the literati don't want people to know. And yet, the short story could be the perfect ambassador for fiction. Of course, the literati scoffed at Steven King's National Book Award and slammed the Harry Potter series as derivative.
Last week I gave Ed, a friend, a short story to read; his response typifies the short story's PR problem. First let me state that Ed is well educated and reads lots of non-fiction (note: women far out number men in the fiction reading department).
Ed makes a brief appearance in my story and I thought he might enjoy the cameo. Within a week, Ed was back to me. "I only got the first five pages," he said, "but it seemed pretty good."
"Five pages?"
"Yeah, up to the point where the guy is sipping wine."
"Actually," I said, "that's the ending."
"Oh."
I went on to explain the concept of a short story and Ed, feeling rather dumb, quickly added that he loved the writing, the characters, and of course, his cameo. But it was like trying to explain a punch line. I should also note that a magazine has already called, interested in the story -- in theory, this eliminates the possibility that the writing was off base.
This isn't the first time readers wanted to know more about what happened next in the story. Or why did 'Y' happen? Or how come we don't know more about this or that? And even at the Squaw Valley Writers Conference, many of the attendees asked similar questions, as did a few of the instructors.
I've certainly struggled with the short story, endings in particular. In the early days, I dazzled myself with contrived plot lines that neatly converged at the end, or with clever twist to throw the reader off. Looking up 'epiphany' in the dictionary didn't help.
I could have saved a lot of time if Louis Menand's 'New Yorker' comments on the short story had come out sooner. His explanation clarified what's taken me years to figure out. You can find his view on the subject within his commentary of Updike's new collection (the December 1 '03 issue). In the article, Menand quotes Joyce and Poe, and compares the art of short fiction to a golf swing.
For me, a short story is the opening of a window into a world. Fleeting as it might be, in the hands of an accomplished writer, we get powerful insights into the human condition without the burden of knowing too much. It can be incredibly satisfying, more so than ten minutes of Sports Center, a read of 'Time' magazine on the john -- starting from the back of course, or 'Howard" on the radio during the daily commute.
If only more people knew how great the short story was, a writer might have more opportunity to place fiction. As it is, the short story is available to only a select few, and that is everyone's loss.
--------
In just a few days, this posting has generated passionate responses. If you feel strongly about the short story, or have an idea on how to get more people interested, drop me an email. In a future entry I'll share some of those views -- anonymously if you wish. Thanks a lot!
Monday, December 1, 2003
Almost Done
Year Six - Week 27 - December 1, 2003
The novel is almost done!
I overloaded on turkey again, which wasn't surprising for those that know me, but this Thanksgiving was exceptional because I had a different event to attend each day of this long weekend.
I'm grateful for the friendship and had a lot of fun, but the writer inside of me was growing impatient, and at times it got down-right ornery. "What about me?" he hollered when I stumbled home after midnight on Sunday. "You've stuffed your face for four days and I'm starving. I can't survive unless you write. Four fucking days. Can you go four days without eating? Breathing? Try a few hours and see how long you last. I need you to get back to the writing -- NOW."
I did feel guilty and there were times when I considered ducking out early, or making an excuse to bail out altogether, but I'm glad I didn't.
My writer doesn't understand that without real human interaction there is nothing to write about. Yes, you can read the paper or watch TV for ideas, but there's no substitute for immersing yourself in all that life has to offer. You have to feel it, taste it, smell it,touch it,see it. You've got to get your hands dirty, in fact, sometimes you've got to roll around in the muck to understand the world and that's got to be a good thing for my writer. But more important, it is essential for my soul.
I can't live from the third person point of view even if my writer prefers staying on the sidelines as the observer. I've told him, "Life is meant to be lived in the first person." He knows this, but he's selfish and insufferable.
Okay, so I ignored my writer over the four-day holiday, but it's not like I totally forgot him. I was collecting scraps for him, and each night before I went to bed, I scraped from my pockets crumbled pieces of paper with ideas scribbled on them. One was on a gravy-stained napkin, another was written across the margins of "The New York Times." So it wasn't like my writer starved this holiday. He got new ideas for characters, plot, and setting. And this week there will be plenty of time to mess around with them to see if anything develops.
And so as the haze from that last glass of Zinfandel clears from head, my writer breathes more easily. He's got renewed energy and fresh experience to draw upon, and ample time to work through an infinite amount of possibility.
The novel is almost done!
I overloaded on turkey again, which wasn't surprising for those that know me, but this Thanksgiving was exceptional because I had a different event to attend each day of this long weekend.
I'm grateful for the friendship and had a lot of fun, but the writer inside of me was growing impatient, and at times it got down-right ornery. "What about me?" he hollered when I stumbled home after midnight on Sunday. "You've stuffed your face for four days and I'm starving. I can't survive unless you write. Four fucking days. Can you go four days without eating? Breathing? Try a few hours and see how long you last. I need you to get back to the writing -- NOW."
I did feel guilty and there were times when I considered ducking out early, or making an excuse to bail out altogether, but I'm glad I didn't.
My writer doesn't understand that without real human interaction there is nothing to write about. Yes, you can read the paper or watch TV for ideas, but there's no substitute for immersing yourself in all that life has to offer. You have to feel it, taste it, smell it,touch it,see it. You've got to get your hands dirty, in fact, sometimes you've got to roll around in the muck to understand the world and that's got to be a good thing for my writer. But more important, it is essential for my soul.
I can't live from the third person point of view even if my writer prefers staying on the sidelines as the observer. I've told him, "Life is meant to be lived in the first person." He knows this, but he's selfish and insufferable.
Okay, so I ignored my writer over the four-day holiday, but it's not like I totally forgot him. I was collecting scraps for him, and each night before I went to bed, I scraped from my pockets crumbled pieces of paper with ideas scribbled on them. One was on a gravy-stained napkin, another was written across the margins of "The New York Times." So it wasn't like my writer starved this holiday. He got new ideas for characters, plot, and setting. And this week there will be plenty of time to mess around with them to see if anything develops.
And so as the haze from that last glass of Zinfandel clears from head, my writer breathes more easily. He's got renewed energy and fresh experience to draw upon, and ample time to work through an infinite amount of possibility.
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