Saturday, February 5, 2011
Guest Blogging Again!
Whoa, two posts in two days! That's a record for me! But this is an easy one: I'm guest blogging today at Lila Munro's Realmantic Moments, about the joys of writing. Come on by and check it out. We'd love to see you there.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Brrrr!
Wow—the sun is actually shining! I feel like breaking into spontaneous Johnny Cash: “I hear the train a’comin…It’s rollin’ ‘round the bend…and I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when…”
Well, really, I saw it four days ago, but it’s been a loo-oo-ooong dark, four days. In case y’all don’t know, I’m located somewhere in Texas. My part of the state is not normally prone to snow accumulations above ½ inch, or to temperatures in the single digits. We typically see a lot of wind, year round, but we don’t typically see wind chill warnings of -7 degrees. Our usual windy winter involves perennially dry skin and statically electrified hair, spotty ice, and relatively tiny amounts of sleet/blowing snow which don’t stick longer than overnight.
So, the past four days have been somewhat of an (overblown) ordeal. But honestly, six inches of snow on a two inch icepack, solid on the roads for three days? Daytime temperatures in the single digits, and a wind chill factor below zero? Who lives like that? Alaskans? Hello; wrong end of the continent here!
When I was very young, I used to dream of a remote Alaskan cabin. Of course, when I was very young, I also used to think nothing of playing barefoot in the snow. But my Alaskan daydreams showcased long, cozy winters, during which I remained snug by the fire with a mountain of books to hand. I never once visualized the work or expense required to transport the literary mountain to the cabin, or the labor required to provide enough firewood for the winter. Nor did I imagine daily chores, much less venturing out of the cozy cabin until spring. For anything.
Well, now I’m old, and not only do I know a fantasy when I see one, arthritis settles in my right knee when the temps settle below 20.
You have to know that I’m not living in luxury here. Whining, I am, but I have no comfy heated home. The in-town house (which I am desperately trying to leave in favor of the farm, and in which I appear to be trapped forever) is a rambling barn of a centenarian, with lovely tall ceilings where warmth likes to hide, and a thousand nooks and crannies admitting whistling arctic winds. It is equipped with one fireplace in the living room and a woefully inadequate furnace. We seldom use the former because a fireplace is the most inefficient form of household heating known to man, and we don’t use the latter because it nicely warms the twenty foot high central stairwell ceiling, and nothing else. If I run that furnace, for a paltry $1000 or more a month I serve as the local stray cat population’s wintertime salvation. Fuzzy feline furballs huddle in the roof peak beside said stairwell, absorbing the warmth as it escapes through a picturesque dormer window, while my indoor cat’s water bowl freezes in the kitchen.
Alternatively, we don't have gas heat because during one of numerous necessary repairs we learned that our gas lines were riddled with holes. The gas company cut us off for safety reasons, and we can’t cajole a plumber into giving a semi-jello-like infirm bid for serious repairs. I refuse to jump into that morass blindfolded, thus we are left with electric space heaters and ingenuity.
We heat two rooms only, on any consistent basis: a main bedroom and the one where my live-in grandson sleeps. We eat and hang out in the main bedroom. To reduce drafts, we tack blanketrs over the windows, and stuff them in the doorcracks. My breath steams and my hands ache while I cook and wash dishes in the kitchen, wearing coat and warm boots, but no gloves. I retreat to the bedroom for periodic breaks, and chop vegetables there instead of in the kitchen, afraid I’ll accidentally slice my numb fingers instead of a carrot. The dog joins us in the bedroom, sometimes along with the more-independent cats. Live-in grandson is a toddler; we stockpile toys and play hours of peek-a-boo, etc., keeping him amused in a small space. He wears three layers: onesie and socks, footie pj’s, pants and long sleeve shirt. In the past four days, with three electric heaters running full tilt, the main bedroom daytime temperature reached a high of 55 degrees. We wear three layers, too. We diligently keep heaters and cords out of Grandson’s reach. I do as little laundry as possible, but anything washed is hung to dry from curtain rods above the muffled windows. We don't own a dryer; the weather makes line-drying impossible. Baths are sporadic and cold; the water heater is electric, but the bathroom is frigid. I sponge-bathe Grandson in the heated bedroom.
Wednesday morning the blackouts begin. We huddle under covers until power is restored.
On the plus side, we’re not homeless. There’s no wind chill indoors. We have plenty of clothing and blankets to layer on ourselves. We don’t need groceries: you won’t see us in those pre-storm lines at the grocery store or stuck in an icy parking lot. We are blessed, still relatively young and strong, and much more able than some to hunker down and ride it out.
Despite my whining, it really wasn’t The Long Winter, of Laura Ingalls Wilder fame. Many, many people across the country and locally had and are having a much harder time than us. Still, today I’m very glad to see the sun.
Random Question for the Day: Unlike a dog, how can a turtle ever be naked?
Hmm. A turtle in a stewpot is very, very naked.
Well, really, I saw it four days ago, but it’s been a loo-oo-ooong dark, four days. In case y’all don’t know, I’m located somewhere in Texas. My part of the state is not normally prone to snow accumulations above ½ inch, or to temperatures in the single digits. We typically see a lot of wind, year round, but we don’t typically see wind chill warnings of -7 degrees. Our usual windy winter involves perennially dry skin and statically electrified hair, spotty ice, and relatively tiny amounts of sleet/blowing snow which don’t stick longer than overnight.
So, the past four days have been somewhat of an (overblown) ordeal. But honestly, six inches of snow on a two inch icepack, solid on the roads for three days? Daytime temperatures in the single digits, and a wind chill factor below zero? Who lives like that? Alaskans? Hello; wrong end of the continent here!
When I was very young, I used to dream of a remote Alaskan cabin. Of course, when I was very young, I also used to think nothing of playing barefoot in the snow. But my Alaskan daydreams showcased long, cozy winters, during which I remained snug by the fire with a mountain of books to hand. I never once visualized the work or expense required to transport the literary mountain to the cabin, or the labor required to provide enough firewood for the winter. Nor did I imagine daily chores, much less venturing out of the cozy cabin until spring. For anything.
Well, now I’m old, and not only do I know a fantasy when I see one, arthritis settles in my right knee when the temps settle below 20.
You have to know that I’m not living in luxury here. Whining, I am, but I have no comfy heated home. The in-town house (which I am desperately trying to leave in favor of the farm, and in which I appear to be trapped forever) is a rambling barn of a centenarian, with lovely tall ceilings where warmth likes to hide, and a thousand nooks and crannies admitting whistling arctic winds. It is equipped with one fireplace in the living room and a woefully inadequate furnace. We seldom use the former because a fireplace is the most inefficient form of household heating known to man, and we don’t use the latter because it nicely warms the twenty foot high central stairwell ceiling, and nothing else. If I run that furnace, for a paltry $1000 or more a month I serve as the local stray cat population’s wintertime salvation. Fuzzy feline furballs huddle in the roof peak beside said stairwell, absorbing the warmth as it escapes through a picturesque dormer window, while my indoor cat’s water bowl freezes in the kitchen.
Alternatively, we don't have gas heat because during one of numerous necessary repairs we learned that our gas lines were riddled with holes. The gas company cut us off for safety reasons, and we can’t cajole a plumber into giving a semi-jello-like infirm bid for serious repairs. I refuse to jump into that morass blindfolded, thus we are left with electric space heaters and ingenuity.
We heat two rooms only, on any consistent basis: a main bedroom and the one where my live-in grandson sleeps. We eat and hang out in the main bedroom. To reduce drafts, we tack blanketrs over the windows, and stuff them in the doorcracks. My breath steams and my hands ache while I cook and wash dishes in the kitchen, wearing coat and warm boots, but no gloves. I retreat to the bedroom for periodic breaks, and chop vegetables there instead of in the kitchen, afraid I’ll accidentally slice my numb fingers instead of a carrot. The dog joins us in the bedroom, sometimes along with the more-independent cats. Live-in grandson is a toddler; we stockpile toys and play hours of peek-a-boo, etc., keeping him amused in a small space. He wears three layers: onesie and socks, footie pj’s, pants and long sleeve shirt. In the past four days, with three electric heaters running full tilt, the main bedroom daytime temperature reached a high of 55 degrees. We wear three layers, too. We diligently keep heaters and cords out of Grandson’s reach. I do as little laundry as possible, but anything washed is hung to dry from curtain rods above the muffled windows. We don't own a dryer; the weather makes line-drying impossible. Baths are sporadic and cold; the water heater is electric, but the bathroom is frigid. I sponge-bathe Grandson in the heated bedroom.
Wednesday morning the blackouts begin. We huddle under covers until power is restored.
On the plus side, we’re not homeless. There’s no wind chill indoors. We have plenty of clothing and blankets to layer on ourselves. We don’t need groceries: you won’t see us in those pre-storm lines at the grocery store or stuck in an icy parking lot. We are blessed, still relatively young and strong, and much more able than some to hunker down and ride it out.
Despite my whining, it really wasn’t The Long Winter, of Laura Ingalls Wilder fame. Many, many people across the country and locally had and are having a much harder time than us. Still, today I’m very glad to see the sun.
Random Question for the Day: Unlike a dog, how can a turtle ever be naked?
Hmm. A turtle in a stewpot is very, very naked.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
If at first you don't suceed...(Part one)
Okay, let’s rewind and try this again. For the three folks who actually once followed this blog, it’s obvious that I haven’t posted anything here in over a year. There are many reasons for my neglect, and I’m not going into them, partly because they’ll probably come up at some point later, and I hate repeating myself. For now, suffice to say it’s a new year and a new blog, sort of. On that theme, I’m guest blogging today over at Lisabet Sarai’s Beyond Romance blog, about the New Year and new resolutions. Go check it out, because a) she’s got a cool blog, and b) that’s all you get from me today. I'll be back tomorrow (perhaps) to expand on the theme.
Random Question for the Day (I have missed this feature): When you hesitate before hitting snooze on your alarm clock, are you being lazy?
I have no idea. I no longer own an alarm clock. Back when I did, I seldom used it, and I never, ever hit snooze. Once I'm awake, I'm awake. I am, however, unquestionably the laziest creature in the universe.
Random Question for the Day (I have missed this feature): When you hesitate before hitting snooze on your alarm clock, are you being lazy?
I have no idea. I no longer own an alarm clock. Back when I did, I seldom used it, and I never, ever hit snooze. Once I'm awake, I'm awake. I am, however, unquestionably the laziest creature in the universe.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Happy Holidays
Since I'm currently still not writing anything for paid publication, I decided to continue the holiday theme, giving you guys a taste of my meditations during this joyous season. I know I'm not the only person enduring horrific sadness inspired by midwinter celebrations; our numbers give rise to the phrase "holiday depression syndrome" with good reason. In my case, I'm a writer. I cope with everything at least in part through writing. So here is what I wrote today.
Grief is so odd. It has individual life and rhythm, independent of stages, schedules or expectations. It can hide away for years, lying in wait until it decides to ambush. It dons camouflage, blending with other issues, passing as something less acidic if not completely innocuous. The unexpected break from cover is part and parcel of the devastation, even when you logically know it should be there. Even when you know you’re grieving and why—even when hell and havoc are familiar, when you’ve already done this so many times—even then grief outwits you and repeatedly destroys you. On days you expect to mourn so hard as to be nonfunctional, you sail through with flying colors because grief changed the plan. On days which pose no obvious problems, presenting no identifiable triggers or potentially painful encounters—you collapse, besieged by a random Blitzkrieg of anguish.
Grief has no mercy and no antidote. The only way out is through, and after enough hours, days, lifetimes of despair, it begins to feel like home until it doesn’t anymore.
Grief has no redeeming qualities. People talk about learning from it, but grief teaches two lessons only: endurance and defeat. A loss that leads to grief can perhaps teach from events surrounding it, or not. But the grief itself, the desolate void loss leaves, teaches nothing but how to blindly, doggedly continue struggling until bludgeoned into bloody submission.
And yet, you can’t hate it. Grief isn’t evil or unnatural; it isn’t the enemy. Aside from cause (loss) and effect (sadness, anger), grief is emotion and association neutral. It’s elemental; it just is, like cold in winter and heat in summer, earth underfoot and sky above.
Grief endures forever, imprinted on and permeating the heart and mind. It’s ageless, timeless…the wasteland underlies everything. Shrinks babble about acceptance; perhaps that’s what they mean. Once you understand life as sorrow and joy intermingled and indivisible, two sides of the universal coin, you’ve found acceptance. I wouldn’t know; I still spend days howling in the wilderness, yearning for what I never really had and will never have the illusion of again.
I think that’s what grief is at bottom: the end of all illusions. Stripped, stark, bare and defenseless, grief is a soul exposed. And it fucking hurts, y’all.
No random question for the day. I'm not in the mood.
Grief is so odd. It has individual life and rhythm, independent of stages, schedules or expectations. It can hide away for years, lying in wait until it decides to ambush. It dons camouflage, blending with other issues, passing as something less acidic if not completely innocuous. The unexpected break from cover is part and parcel of the devastation, even when you logically know it should be there. Even when you know you’re grieving and why—even when hell and havoc are familiar, when you’ve already done this so many times—even then grief outwits you and repeatedly destroys you. On days you expect to mourn so hard as to be nonfunctional, you sail through with flying colors because grief changed the plan. On days which pose no obvious problems, presenting no identifiable triggers or potentially painful encounters—you collapse, besieged by a random Blitzkrieg of anguish.
Grief has no mercy and no antidote. The only way out is through, and after enough hours, days, lifetimes of despair, it begins to feel like home until it doesn’t anymore.
Grief has no redeeming qualities. People talk about learning from it, but grief teaches two lessons only: endurance and defeat. A loss that leads to grief can perhaps teach from events surrounding it, or not. But the grief itself, the desolate void loss leaves, teaches nothing but how to blindly, doggedly continue struggling until bludgeoned into bloody submission.
And yet, you can’t hate it. Grief isn’t evil or unnatural; it isn’t the enemy. Aside from cause (loss) and effect (sadness, anger), grief is emotion and association neutral. It’s elemental; it just is, like cold in winter and heat in summer, earth underfoot and sky above.
Grief endures forever, imprinted on and permeating the heart and mind. It’s ageless, timeless…the wasteland underlies everything. Shrinks babble about acceptance; perhaps that’s what they mean. Once you understand life as sorrow and joy intermingled and indivisible, two sides of the universal coin, you’ve found acceptance. I wouldn’t know; I still spend days howling in the wilderness, yearning for what I never really had and will never have the illusion of again.
I think that’s what grief is at bottom: the end of all illusions. Stripped, stark, bare and defenseless, grief is a soul exposed. And it fucking hurts, y’all.
No random question for the day. I'm not in the mood.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Getting to Know You...for Christmas
I’m going to take a minute and not write about writing, mostly because I can’t think of anything to say about it that I haven’t already said. Could the previous sentence get any more convoluted? (There’s your token comment about writing.)
Instead I want to make a random post about Christmas. Keep in mind that I am not Christian, so while the state makes December 25th a holiday, it isn’t my holy day. Nor am I any particular form of pagan, so I don’t get excited about Winter Solstice or what have you. But like many people who grew up in the Western Hemisphere, I have memories and associations with Christmas, so since I am basically lazy, I am using a “Christmas edition of getting to know your friends” as a blog entry today. Enjoy, and if you like, copy, insert your answers and pass it on.
1. Wrapping paper or gift bags?
Gift bags or boxes. Much easier. Also recyclable, and I have a thing about responsible paper usage.
2. Real tree or artificial?
Artificial. I prefer keeping real ones in the ground, where they benefit the environment.
3. When do you put up the tree?
If I put one up, usually right after Thanksgiving to get it over with. I didn’t put one up this year. Having a tree, to me, is a thing to do for the kids. I have no more kids at home.
4. When do you take the tree down?
Again, if I put one up, taking it down is a New Year’s Day ritual.
5. Do you like eggnog?
Meh. Depends on the alcohol in it. I prefer my alcohol with other mixers, though.
6. Hardest person to buy for?
Used to be my mother. She's gone now, so -- no one.
8. Easiest person to buy for?
All of them. My other family members make no bones about what they want/need.
9. Do you have a nativity scene?
Not any more. I once bought one I thought was cute, but displaying it became hypocritical many, many moons ago.
10. Mail or email Christmas cards?
Either, as the mood hits me. I don’t do many.
11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received?
Too many to mention. My beloved mother was notorious for silly, junkie gifts from Walter Drake catalogs. And candy that she liked and I didn’t.
12. Favorite Christmas Movie?
The Polar Express. I totally identify with the kid’s doubt. And even when he thinks he’s got proof that Santa exists, it gets ripped away. Welcome to the real world.
13. When do you start shopping for Christmas?
Only when I must.
14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present?
I really can’t recall.
15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?
The last several years we’ve done a Mexican feast. We like it. Enchiladas (multiple kinds), tamales, rice, beans; build your own tacos, fajitas, tostadas and nachos; quesadillas…we end with cheesecake.
16. What color of lights do you prefer on the tree?
White. Keeps things simple.
17. Favorite Christmas song?
“Oh Holy Night” is a living memory of my mother. “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” is nice and boisterous and vigorous. “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” and “We Three Kings” are reminiscent of Gregorian chant; cool registers. Ditto "Oh, Come Oh Come Emmanual." “Angels we have heard on high” is musically glorious.
Frankly I just love music, even Christian music.
18. Travel at Christmas or stay home?
Used to host the crowd. This is changing. Don’t know what the future holds.
19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer?
Yes.
20. Angel on the tree top or a star?
Angel. I like magical protective figures, even though they’re practically worthless.
21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning?
Always morning, in the past. Santa doesn’t come ‘til kids are asleep on Christmas eve. Again, things are changing. Don’t know what the future holds.
22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year?
Christians trying to dictate all midwinter celebration acknowledgements (Merry Christmas vs Happy Holidays vs Xmas controversy), who apparently feel justified in cramming their chosen celebratory form down everyone's throat in public (nativity scenes in government buildings, prayer at workplace parties, etc.) and private...if your friends aren't Christian, may I gently suggest you don't send them "Jesus is the reason for the season" holiday cards? They go straight in the trash, wasting your money and time, and a living tree. On the other hand, "May you and your family be blessed now and in the coming year" usually isn't offensive. If you're unsure about someone's viewpoint, ask. Otherwise, have your celebration as you prefer, and leave the rest of us alone.
(Stepping off the soap box now...)
23. Favorite ornament theme or color?
When my children were at home, every year each of them received a new commemorative ornament of some kind. The tree was a mishmash of memories and I loved it. They are all gone now, and their ornaments with them. Other than that, I like sticking to the greenery theme—you know, the original pagan meaning of life enduring through the cold.
24. Favorite for Christmas dinner?
See Mexican feast above
25. What do you want for Christmas this year?
Peace and goodwill seem appropriate and beneficial, no matter your religious choice or lack of it. Of course, becoming Supreme Dictator of the World would be good, too.
Last call for entries for the Lonely Hearts Mountain book giveaway! Send email entries to romancebyrachelsmith@yahoo.com with “Me, me, me, pick me!” in the subject line, by December 24, 11:59 pm. Barring interference from the Universe, the winner will be notified December 26.
And the random question of the day:
Oscillate my metallic sonatas with your plan for the Panama canal:
Only after you explain to me how and where you obtained or developed musical compositions containing elements that conduct electricity and heat, and form cations and ionic bonds with non-metals. And how you get them to rotate. Yes, I know big words, too.
Instead I want to make a random post about Christmas. Keep in mind that I am not Christian, so while the state makes December 25th a holiday, it isn’t my holy day. Nor am I any particular form of pagan, so I don’t get excited about Winter Solstice or what have you. But like many people who grew up in the Western Hemisphere, I have memories and associations with Christmas, so since I am basically lazy, I am using a “Christmas edition of getting to know your friends” as a blog entry today. Enjoy, and if you like, copy, insert your answers and pass it on.
1. Wrapping paper or gift bags?
Gift bags or boxes. Much easier. Also recyclable, and I have a thing about responsible paper usage.
2. Real tree or artificial?
Artificial. I prefer keeping real ones in the ground, where they benefit the environment.
3. When do you put up the tree?
If I put one up, usually right after Thanksgiving to get it over with. I didn’t put one up this year. Having a tree, to me, is a thing to do for the kids. I have no more kids at home.
4. When do you take the tree down?
Again, if I put one up, taking it down is a New Year’s Day ritual.
5. Do you like eggnog?
Meh. Depends on the alcohol in it. I prefer my alcohol with other mixers, though.
6. Hardest person to buy for?
Used to be my mother. She's gone now, so -- no one.
8. Easiest person to buy for?
All of them. My other family members make no bones about what they want/need.
9. Do you have a nativity scene?
Not any more. I once bought one I thought was cute, but displaying it became hypocritical many, many moons ago.
10. Mail or email Christmas cards?
Either, as the mood hits me. I don’t do many.
11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received?
Too many to mention. My beloved mother was notorious for silly, junkie gifts from Walter Drake catalogs. And candy that she liked and I didn’t.
12. Favorite Christmas Movie?
The Polar Express. I totally identify with the kid’s doubt. And even when he thinks he’s got proof that Santa exists, it gets ripped away. Welcome to the real world.
13. When do you start shopping for Christmas?
Only when I must.
14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present?
I really can’t recall.
15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?
The last several years we’ve done a Mexican feast. We like it. Enchiladas (multiple kinds), tamales, rice, beans; build your own tacos, fajitas, tostadas and nachos; quesadillas…we end with cheesecake.
16. What color of lights do you prefer on the tree?
White. Keeps things simple.
17. Favorite Christmas song?
“Oh Holy Night” is a living memory of my mother. “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” is nice and boisterous and vigorous. “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” and “We Three Kings” are reminiscent of Gregorian chant; cool registers. Ditto "Oh, Come Oh Come Emmanual." “Angels we have heard on high” is musically glorious.
Frankly I just love music, even Christian music.
18. Travel at Christmas or stay home?
Used to host the crowd. This is changing. Don’t know what the future holds.
19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer?
Yes.
20. Angel on the tree top or a star?
Angel. I like magical protective figures, even though they’re practically worthless.
21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning?
Always morning, in the past. Santa doesn’t come ‘til kids are asleep on Christmas eve. Again, things are changing. Don’t know what the future holds.
22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year?
Christians trying to dictate all midwinter celebration acknowledgements (Merry Christmas vs Happy Holidays vs Xmas controversy), who apparently feel justified in cramming their chosen celebratory form down everyone's throat in public (nativity scenes in government buildings, prayer at workplace parties, etc.) and private...if your friends aren't Christian, may I gently suggest you don't send them "Jesus is the reason for the season" holiday cards? They go straight in the trash, wasting your money and time, and a living tree. On the other hand, "May you and your family be blessed now and in the coming year" usually isn't offensive. If you're unsure about someone's viewpoint, ask. Otherwise, have your celebration as you prefer, and leave the rest of us alone.
(Stepping off the soap box now...)
23. Favorite ornament theme or color?
When my children were at home, every year each of them received a new commemorative ornament of some kind. The tree was a mishmash of memories and I loved it. They are all gone now, and their ornaments with them. Other than that, I like sticking to the greenery theme—you know, the original pagan meaning of life enduring through the cold.
24. Favorite for Christmas dinner?
See Mexican feast above
25. What do you want for Christmas this year?
Peace and goodwill seem appropriate and beneficial, no matter your religious choice or lack of it. Of course, becoming Supreme Dictator of the World would be good, too.
Last call for entries for the Lonely Hearts Mountain book giveaway! Send email entries to romancebyrachelsmith@yahoo.com with “Me, me, me, pick me!” in the subject line, by December 24, 11:59 pm. Barring interference from the Universe, the winner will be notified December 26.
And the random question of the day:
Oscillate my metallic sonatas with your plan for the Panama canal:
Only after you explain to me how and where you obtained or developed musical compositions containing elements that conduct electricity and heat, and form cations and ionic bonds with non-metals. And how you get them to rotate. Yes, I know big words, too.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Love me, Love my work...Not.
It’s been a while since my last post, and for that I apologize. Holidays and other train wrecks have disrupted my blogging schedule. Although, to be honest, I don’t have a blogging schedule; I do this as the impulse hits me. Readers are lucky for anything they get.
Anyway. Abandoning the festive mood for the moment, let's address something relevant to writing. Over the last few months, reviews have come in for Lonely Hearts Mountain. They are what I consider mixed, meaning: No one has absolutely dissed the book, but some reviewers have pointed out flaws, while describing it overall as an entertaining read. And you know what? That’s okay.
I can’t remember and am too lazy to look, but I may have said here before that fiction writing, for me, strongly resembles channeling. It’s not a purely intellectual exercise. The characters tell the story, and I act as their scribe. Only after they’ve spewed the first draft onto the hard drive (via my fingers and keyboard) do I go back and look at things like sentence and paragraph structure, chapter organization, POV shifts, etc. And even then I seldom jerk with characterization and plot.
Guess what happens? Sometimes I wind up frowning over a plot sequence or device. Sometimes I snort in disgust at a character’s behavior. Sometimes I roll my eyes and think, “Really? What idiot is gonna buy that?”-- referring to whom you like, literally and figuratively. Editors, readers, reviewers…will they pay for it? Will they find it believable? Will they enjoy, it, even?
Who the hell knows? Not me. Who cares? Not me, again.
Don’t get me wrong. I want to write good books, meaning books that will sell and entertain, sometimes possibly even educate. I work hard to do that, and learn more about how to do it every day.
At the same time, I know my limitations and I know the real world. I’m not writing gilded classics here. At best, these are nothing more than entertaining stories. Not everyone will like them, all the time. Some folks will hate them, for a thousand different reasons. In the case of Lonely Hearts Mountain, one reviewer felt certain events moved along too quickly. So did I. (Who gets engaged after knowing someone for only six days? Seriously.) Another got really irritated with the female protagonist’s stupid decisions. So did I. (Dumbass, there are men with guns up on that mountain. Stay off it, for God sakes!)
And that’s okay. In the real world, in real life, events sometimes move quickly. We don’t always handle them well. Sometimes we make stupid decisions. Sometimes who we are beneath a façade--good or bad, in-character or not--becomes evident only in specific situations.
Story characters are people too, and they don’t always get everything right. Neither do I: as an individual, a writer, and their scribe. And still, that’s okay. One reviewer said she was glad I wasn't angry when she mentioned the story's flaws. Seriously, folks, if anyone out there really can’t acknowledge occasional less-than-total-perfection in themselves or their work, I know a few good shrinks you can speak to.
In the spirit of holiday giving, I’m offering a free PDF copy of Lonely Hearts Mountain to one reader, chosen randomly from everyone who emails me to enter the drawing between now and December 24, 11:59 pm (2359 for you military folks) per the email time stamp. Send email entries to romancebyrachelsmith@yahoo.com with “Me, me, me, pick me!” in the subject line. Barring intereference from the Universe, the winner will be notified December 26.
Not that I actually expect anyone to enter.
And finally, the random question of the day:
That can't really be a fish you're standing on, can it?
Only if it looks like one. Does it? (Yes, I briefly worked as a semi-shrink.)
**UPDATE**
I posted this entry, went to look at it on the page, and realised that the blog now has three actual followers. So henceforth I will cease whining about how no one is reading. Seriously, CJ, BJ, and Lori, you made my day. Thanks.
But I still bet no one enters the drawing for the book.
Anyway. Abandoning the festive mood for the moment, let's address something relevant to writing. Over the last few months, reviews have come in for Lonely Hearts Mountain. They are what I consider mixed, meaning: No one has absolutely dissed the book, but some reviewers have pointed out flaws, while describing it overall as an entertaining read. And you know what? That’s okay.
I can’t remember and am too lazy to look, but I may have said here before that fiction writing, for me, strongly resembles channeling. It’s not a purely intellectual exercise. The characters tell the story, and I act as their scribe. Only after they’ve spewed the first draft onto the hard drive (via my fingers and keyboard) do I go back and look at things like sentence and paragraph structure, chapter organization, POV shifts, etc. And even then I seldom jerk with characterization and plot.
Guess what happens? Sometimes I wind up frowning over a plot sequence or device. Sometimes I snort in disgust at a character’s behavior. Sometimes I roll my eyes and think, “Really? What idiot is gonna buy that?”-- referring to whom you like, literally and figuratively. Editors, readers, reviewers…will they pay for it? Will they find it believable? Will they enjoy, it, even?
Who the hell knows? Not me. Who cares? Not me, again.
Don’t get me wrong. I want to write good books, meaning books that will sell and entertain, sometimes possibly even educate. I work hard to do that, and learn more about how to do it every day.
At the same time, I know my limitations and I know the real world. I’m not writing gilded classics here. At best, these are nothing more than entertaining stories. Not everyone will like them, all the time. Some folks will hate them, for a thousand different reasons. In the case of Lonely Hearts Mountain, one reviewer felt certain events moved along too quickly. So did I. (Who gets engaged after knowing someone for only six days? Seriously.) Another got really irritated with the female protagonist’s stupid decisions. So did I. (Dumbass, there are men with guns up on that mountain. Stay off it, for God sakes!)
And that’s okay. In the real world, in real life, events sometimes move quickly. We don’t always handle them well. Sometimes we make stupid decisions. Sometimes who we are beneath a façade--good or bad, in-character or not--becomes evident only in specific situations.
Story characters are people too, and they don’t always get everything right. Neither do I: as an individual, a writer, and their scribe. And still, that’s okay. One reviewer said she was glad I wasn't angry when she mentioned the story's flaws. Seriously, folks, if anyone out there really can’t acknowledge occasional less-than-total-perfection in themselves or their work, I know a few good shrinks you can speak to.
In the spirit of holiday giving, I’m offering a free PDF copy of Lonely Hearts Mountain to one reader, chosen randomly from everyone who emails me to enter the drawing between now and December 24, 11:59 pm (2359 for you military folks) per the email time stamp. Send email entries to romancebyrachelsmith@yahoo.com with “Me, me, me, pick me!” in the subject line. Barring intereference from the Universe, the winner will be notified December 26.
Not that I actually expect anyone to enter.
And finally, the random question of the day:
That can't really be a fish you're standing on, can it?
Only if it looks like one. Does it? (Yes, I briefly worked as a semi-shrink.)
**UPDATE**
I posted this entry, went to look at it on the page, and realised that the blog now has three actual followers. So henceforth I will cease whining about how no one is reading. Seriously, CJ, BJ, and Lori, you made my day. Thanks.
But I still bet no one enters the drawing for the book.
Friday, November 20, 2009
I Lo-o-o-ve My Editor
That is, I love her at this moment. An hour from now I may not. But right this minute I love her almost as much—perhaps more than—my own children. Why?
Simple. She pointed out a flaw in a story.
If you haven’t been down this road, you may not immediately grasp how this is a loveable act. Bear with me.
If you follow the blog you know that several months ago I submitted a novel, and have been waiting to hear from the publisher since. The eventual answer was a very nice “No, thank you.” With rejection came insights passed on from acquisitions readers, consisting of several concrete jewels, including this bit: “the opening with descriptions of the landscape didn't grab them at all…”
That’s not earthshaking, is it? Except…the opening wasn’t about the landscape. It was meant to introduce the main character in her current role, illustrating her immediate decision-making process, in which the landscape played a part.
I think I mentioned last post that I’m not terribly analytical when it comes to writing. I can be systematically solution-oriented about every other issue on earth, but I struggle to dissect my own work. My initial response to the above was: “Huh? I can’t change that! That’s where she is; that’s what’s going on!”
So then, of course, I went into my cave, where several unrelated incidents prolonged my stay.
What do you mean, what do I mean, I went into my cave? I have a personal cave, don’t you? Of course you do. Everybody’s got a cave. It’s your haven when life is hard. Your cave is the place—physical or otherwise—where you regroup and mull it over, perhaps while outwardly pursuing mundane affairs, or conversely, neglecting myriad responsibilities while indulging in nonstop Facebook games (er-hmm).
Regardless, I went into my cave. And finally, two weeks later, between rounds of Farkle and voting for my Sorority Life sisters, I had a Eureka Moment.
“Well, duh, Rachel. If the acquisitions readers think they’re reading a landscape description instead of a character description, then you have written the introduction WRONG. You need to rewrite it so that they are drawn into a mercenary captain’s decision as to where her troop should camp, in unfamiliar territory with her possibly vengeful, supposedly immortal husband on their trail.”
Yup, that’s more than landscape description.
So I rewrote the introduction. I don’t know whether I rewrote it enough, but I certainly wrote it with clearer vision and purpose than I possessed the first time—or even through the 5,333rd edit done before the most recent submission.
See, this is why editors are good, people. Even when they tell you things you don't wanna hear. Much as I love my beta readers, they didn’t—maybe couldn’t—express this truth to me. My local writer’s group gave the story first place in their yearly competition. But three sucessive publishers have rejected it. Each gave it apparently serious consideration, which tells me there is something worthwhile in it, if I can just make it shine. Only the last publisher pointed me solidly to the flaws, giving me a better product to market elsewhere.
So, yes. I love my editor. (She is my editor for other works, if she isn’t for the one under discussion.)
You know what? While we’re analyzing, it just hit me that the character’s initial placement in the landscape is also an allegory for her position: caught between two worlds, essentially isolated…
Damn. It’s amazing what a little analysis can yield.
And now, the random question of the day (remember, I don't generate these. I just push a button and answer what comes up.):
When you've got water stuck in your ear, how do you get it out?
Um... tilt your head sideways? Do you even have a day job? No? Not surprised.
Simple. She pointed out a flaw in a story.
If you haven’t been down this road, you may not immediately grasp how this is a loveable act. Bear with me.
If you follow the blog you know that several months ago I submitted a novel, and have been waiting to hear from the publisher since. The eventual answer was a very nice “No, thank you.” With rejection came insights passed on from acquisitions readers, consisting of several concrete jewels, including this bit: “the opening with descriptions of the landscape didn't grab them at all…”
That’s not earthshaking, is it? Except…the opening wasn’t about the landscape. It was meant to introduce the main character in her current role, illustrating her immediate decision-making process, in which the landscape played a part.
I think I mentioned last post that I’m not terribly analytical when it comes to writing. I can be systematically solution-oriented about every other issue on earth, but I struggle to dissect my own work. My initial response to the above was: “Huh? I can’t change that! That’s where she is; that’s what’s going on!”
So then, of course, I went into my cave, where several unrelated incidents prolonged my stay.
What do you mean, what do I mean, I went into my cave? I have a personal cave, don’t you? Of course you do. Everybody’s got a cave. It’s your haven when life is hard. Your cave is the place—physical or otherwise—where you regroup and mull it over, perhaps while outwardly pursuing mundane affairs, or conversely, neglecting myriad responsibilities while indulging in nonstop Facebook games (er-hmm).
Regardless, I went into my cave. And finally, two weeks later, between rounds of Farkle and voting for my Sorority Life sisters, I had a Eureka Moment.
“Well, duh, Rachel. If the acquisitions readers think they’re reading a landscape description instead of a character description, then you have written the introduction WRONG. You need to rewrite it so that they are drawn into a mercenary captain’s decision as to where her troop should camp, in unfamiliar territory with her possibly vengeful, supposedly immortal husband on their trail.”
Yup, that’s more than landscape description.
So I rewrote the introduction. I don’t know whether I rewrote it enough, but I certainly wrote it with clearer vision and purpose than I possessed the first time—or even through the 5,333rd edit done before the most recent submission.
See, this is why editors are good, people. Even when they tell you things you don't wanna hear. Much as I love my beta readers, they didn’t—maybe couldn’t—express this truth to me. My local writer’s group gave the story first place in their yearly competition. But three sucessive publishers have rejected it. Each gave it apparently serious consideration, which tells me there is something worthwhile in it, if I can just make it shine. Only the last publisher pointed me solidly to the flaws, giving me a better product to market elsewhere.
So, yes. I love my editor. (She is my editor for other works, if she isn’t for the one under discussion.)
You know what? While we’re analyzing, it just hit me that the character’s initial placement in the landscape is also an allegory for her position: caught between two worlds, essentially isolated…
Damn. It’s amazing what a little analysis can yield.
And now, the random question of the day (remember, I don't generate these. I just push a button and answer what comes up.):
When you've got water stuck in your ear, how do you get it out?
Um... tilt your head sideways? Do you even have a day job? No? Not surprised.
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