On Writer’s Block (aka: A Very Short Post For Once)

There are dozens, nay hundreds, nay thousands of resources on and offline regarding this topic. Who am I to tell you diddly, against all that wisdom? And yet I will be sitting on a panel about this topic in a few days, and must come up with something to say.

So here are my thoughts, in brief.

Writer’s block just means the creative part of my brain needs more time to chew over a difficult point, quite possibly one I don’t even realize I’m about to run into yet. Being stopped mid word is simply part of being a writer, for me, at this point; it’s like breathing. I shrug and trust myself, and go do something else. A typical internal dialogue:

“Oh, another one of those days when I just can’t make myself write. Well, the garden needs weeded. That shelf needs fixed. The room needs painted. Bills need paid and the account caught up. God I hate doing that. God my back hurts from all that gardening and painting. I don’t want to paint any more. I want to . . . I want to . . . I want to write!”

And back to work I go.

Hopefully I can come up with something wittier and wiser for the poor audience at RavenCon….

 

A Phoney Smile?

I recently took another step in the evolution of my online presence: I signed up for a Twitter account. I’ve been resisting this step. I didn’t have anything worth saying, I didn’t have the time to maintain yet another online “presence”, I hated the notion of restraining myself to 140 characters (come on, I even suck at cutting my word count below 6,000 for a short story!), and I kept hearing that Twitter is just a bunch of people either telling the world what they had for breakfast or flogging their various (annoying and useless) products.

And yet, I signed up. Call it social pressure, call it necessity, call it curiosity or evolution–whatever. I’m on Twitter. (leonawisoker, if you’re wondering.)

In an almost immediate sign that I’d done the right thing, I came across (and tweeted, with great amusement) the link to an article titled “Promoting Your Book on Facebook and Twitter Is A Total Waste of Time.” The best (most relevant, anyway) line in the post:

The Rowlings, Gaimans, Atwoods and Rushdies may attract attention for what they have to say (which is, please note, not normally related to their books), but nobody gives a damn what the rest of us think, about anything. [bolding mine]

I found it even more amusing that within an hour of posting this link, two people (fellow authors, if I recall correctly) who’d signed up to follow my tweets dropped me like a hot potato. Could be coincidence. Maybe they were just culling their tweet-lists and it had nothing to do with me. I dunno. It could also be that some folks just have a very different sense of humor than I do.

The thing to focus on here is that bolded bit, because it’s really damn important. I once had a long time editor tell me that he finds it “endearing” when a new or aspiring author includes a web site URL with their manuscript submission, because it’s so pointless. Unless you’re already a Name, he said, why bother? No editor in their right mind is going to make the extra effort to look at a newbie’s web site. It’s a way of marking yourself as an Amateur.

I very politely told him that I didn’t put my web site up for editors, but for my readers–for the people who support and encourage me. It’s not a great web site; it’s home built. It’s not there to show off my design skills, it’s there to show off–to readers–that I’M REALLY FREAKING SERIOUS ABOUT THIS WRITING THING. I didn’t bother saying that I found his attitude arrogant and very nearly offensive, because there wasn’t any point getting into a fight with someone much bigger, Name-wise, than I’ll likely ever be–and because, from his side of the desk, I can see his point. I get what he was saying, and to a certain point, I agree.

But I think this editor had developed tunnel-vision. It’s one of the risks of being really good at and/or really dedicated to a job; you start sneering at anyone standing outside the lines of your own competence, and you forget what it was like to be new. I’ve done it. You’ve done it. Everyone gets tunnel-vision now and again, and loses their sense of perspective, proportion, and most dangerously of all, their sense of humor. If we’re lucky, someone Gibb-smacks us upside the back of the head and shakes us out of it. If we’re unlucky, we calcify into sour, cynical old bastards who complain about all those whippersnappers today and the way the world used to be so much better.

Or, if you’re a writer trying to promote your own work, thrashing about frantically in the shark-infested sea of options and advice, under pressure by friends, family, peers, and co-workers to sell sell sell that book and put out the next one and use this social media and that device and attend this convention and talk to this and that person who can totally make you hit the Big Time, darling…. if you’re laboring under all of that, tunnel-vision may mean you latch on to The Right Way To Promote Yourself with a death grip. Such as, say, Twitter. Or blogging. Or Facebook. Or book group appearances. Or having a vending table at a convention. Or hanging out with other, more accomplished writers so that you can drop names and build Important Connections.

And then you’re headed for trouble. Because under that sort of pressure, it’s really easy to swap out Sincerity for Popularity. To indulge in backscratching, as it were–you review my book, I’ll review yours–I’ll interview you for my podcast and you invite me to post on your blog–and so on. Which isn’t necessarily bad–unless you really, truly, honestly, don’t actually like the person, don’t actually like their writing or art or whatever product they’re hawking–at which point you’re well and truly stuck.

How do you say, politely, “Wow, thanks for that fabulous tweet/interview/review, but I’m not going to return the favor because I don’t like your work as much as you like mine?” And worse, what do you do when you suspect that they only offered that nice review because they expected you to return the favor, and they really don’t like you — or your work — either?

Hm. It just occurred to me what the situation reminds me of: classic codependency triangles. Interesting. Mustn’t sidetrack, though….

Here’s my situation: I have really, ridiculously, outrageously high standards for writing and artwork. I’m quirky, I’m particular, I’m picky and hypercritical. And so I often find that while I truly like someone as a person, and even admire their dedication and enthusiasm and quirky creativity, that their “finished” work (quotes deliberate, and deserve a whole other post in and of itself)  isn’t all that great in my eyes, and so I won’t endorse it. My name, my reputation, is incredibly important to me–and if I back someone I don’t honestly believe in, then not only am I betraying myself, I’m betraying the people who trust my judgement.

When I don’t like someone’s work, however, I go to great lengths to avoid saying any of this straight out, for two very important reasons. One, I’m a polite gal, as much as possible, and I know how much it hurts to hear that a friend or peer doesn’t like your creative efforts. Two, while I may not care for a given writer’s output now, there’s nothing saying they mightn’t drastically improve and present something smashingly fantastic tomorrow. I don’t want them carrying around a memory of me as a negative critic of their earlier work; I want to be there cheering them on when they hit that high mark!

So when I find someone whose work I can really stand behind, I YELL ABOUT IT ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE. Like Alan Smale, a phenomenal science fiction writer who is unbelievably shy and self-effacing. Like Coyote Run, a now-disbanded Celtic Rock band who produced ten years of some of the most amazing music I’ve ever heard. Like S.J. Tucker, a folk singer whose music has absolutely charmed and captivated me. Like Ash Ambirge of The Middle Finger Project, whose ballsy approach to marketing has made me rethink dozens of assumptions and made me much more confident at self-promoting. I could name others, but you get the point.

What does this have to do with Twitter? (Ah, you thought I was wandering right off the range, dincha? Hah! Nope, I was coming back around. Have some faith, folks.) When I signed up for Twitter, I did so with a dread of having to constantly self promote, talk about myself, my books, yadda yadda yawwwwwwwn. That post about doing so being a complete waste of time hit me like a baseball between the eyes. It was a stunning, shaky, aching relief to read it. I didn’t interpret the article as “don’t bother using Twitter or FB to self-promote at all”–what I heard, on reading it, was that I have the option of being genuine. I can tweet about stuff that I care about, meaning that other people will care about it too, instead of talking about myself. I can insert the occasional “hey, come hang out with me at this convention or that event”, and people who are interested will respond–but I don’t have to spam everyone’s feed with buy my shit, buy my shit, buy my shit.

And that’s freaking wonderful. Because here’s the truth: I’m going to keep writing whether or not you buy a single thing from me. I’m going to keep writing regardless of whether I ever see another piece of mine hit proper publication. I’m going to keep writing no matter how many people praise my work or trash my work or flat out ignore my work. I’m going to keep writing regardless of who I piss off by refusing to backscratch and play the social games; no matter who gets mad when I refuse to bow to the pressure to fake approval of people I really don’t think are any good.

I care more about writing than I do about any of that stuff. And the folks I want as friends and followers and fans and readers? You get that, and you feel the same way about your creative stuff.

So if you’re just following me on Twitter or on this blog or on Facebook, Goodreads, Shelfari, or whatever… in hopes that I’ll follow you back or rack up your page counts or whatever? Heh. Work on that phoney smile of yours, and let me know how life works out for you. In the meanwhile, I’ll be over here working on my next book… and chatting with the folks who actually get it–and grinning like a genuinely deranged butterfly. Because life is freaking good when you’re playing for real.

 

Panic and Elevator Speeches

It’s that time again. My next book launches in under two weeks, and another one four months after that. I have multiple appearances lined up between now and then, and plans to set up several more; and all that is by way of saying that I am just a tad bit overdue in developing my elevator speech. What’s an elevator speech? some of you are saying right about now. (Others are nodding in pained sympathy. I can hear your groan from here.)

An elevator speech is a two or three sentence synopsis of your novel, short enough to deliver in the time it takes to go from one floor to another in an average elevator. It should be sparkly and compelling and entice your conversational partner to check out your work immediately, or at least within the next 48 hours. It is the blurb you deliver to folks strolling by who pause–just for a moment–to check out your sales table, and will ideally make them stop in their tracks and buy the book on the spot. It is the bait you offer to the Big Name (or even little name) agent or publisher that you happen to bump into at a random event (assuming said agent or publisher has indicated interest in hearing your little spiel in the first place, of course–very nearly hen’s teeth rare, that, but it does happen).

I would rather write a 180,000 word novel in a month than put together an elevator speech for my own books. Drafting one up for other people’s books is, perversely, a cinch. I’ve sold many a convention customer the books of Zachary Steele and Larissa Niec and Edward Morris without breaking a sweat. But when asked to explain my own books, I stall, freeze, tremble, and long to hide under the table.

(Those of you who have seen me at conventions, selling books, may doubt this claim. I’ve learned to smile even more brightly when I’m terrified, and amp up the projected confidence when I’m really wanting to run away. It’s what a shy, awkward introvert has to do to survive public appearances–and the nice side benefit to that is that over time, that pose becomes reality. Sort of. But that’s a subject for a whole ‘nuther post. This one is supposed to be about my nemesis of elevator speeches. See–I tried to run away from the topic already. Dangit. Turning back around to face the demon now….)

I’m not entirely comfortable, even after three years, with my elevator speeches for Secrets of the Sands and Guardians of the Desert. The prospect of developing another awkward, crappy attempt to explain the third book is seriously daunting. But it has to be done, or I’ll embarrass myself in front of hundreds of people at MarsCon next weekend–and that I will not do. The potential pain of that is far greater for me than the pain of developing this dratted spiel.  So that’s my Big Task for the day: developing stuff to talk about at the convention, practicing it until I feel comfortable that I can launch into it even while distracted with a half dozen other matters, working with it until I feel I can defend it even against skeptical hostility, polishing a smile and an easy side step if someone really rabid comes up and wants to tell me about Their Fabulous Story Idea for half an hour–

Ah. No. There I go, starting to sidetrack again. Focus. Focus! Elevator speeches and the crafting thereof. Right. I think I’ll take that life-line phone call now….

Excellent. My wonderfully helpful friend Chris Addotta took time out from her own convention preparations to brainstorm a handful of great ideas just now. I don’t know what I would do without her some days, I really don’t.

On a grand scale, Bells of the Kingdom revolves around the merits of survival and the power of redemption; facing the darkness within; the confrontation between non-human and human morality structures; and the gap between childhood dream and adult reality. It’s a story about the powerless coming into more power than they know what to do with, and how that changes them and how it affects their practical ethics. On a more prosaic, action-oriented scale, it’s the story of Idisio being kidnapped by his mother, and his mother’s struggle to reclaim her sanity in order to be worthy of her son. It’s the story of Kolan, the Arason priest captured alongside Ellemoa, facing sunlight again after years of torture in the darkness under Bright Bay. It’s the story of Tank, the prodigy tangentially responsible for Kolan and Ellemoa’s release from their prison, fighting for his own freedom, not from stone walls, but from the tangled, dangerous politics of the southlands. It’s the story of how all these prisons and freedoms and choices interact and intersect. It’s a deeper, broader look at the events underlying what happened in Secrets and Guardians.

There. It’s rough, but it’s a start. I can work with that to develop something smoother over the next few days. So this task gets checked off my long list for the day, and I move on to ordering business cards and checking my stock and creating a flyer for the Broad Universe rapid fire reading and cooking a ham for the Con Suite and making mini muffins and vegetarian chili for the Green Room, and–well, maybe I’ll stop there for today. I can do the rest of the list tomorrow.

:-p

See you at MarsCon!

 

Back on Track…

Recent posts seem to have wandered a bit off the writing-topic path, haven’t they? Let me steer things back to the proper route (although diversions are always fun, and have their place), and get on with talking about things writerly.

Most recently, I’ve been reading a book called “Verbatim”, which is a collection of articles from the long-running magazine Verbatim: The Language Quarterly. Published in 2001, it is in a few spots already showing its age, but it is tremendously interesting and amusing all the same. Laurance Urdang, long-time editor of the magazine, says: “It was always my hope that Verbatim would emerge as a breath of fresh air for that interested cadre of word lovers  who had been forced to endure Sunday-supplement curiosity collections and word puzzles levelled at six-year-olds.” I’d say, offhand, he succeded, if this collection of articles is anything to go by.

There is a refreshing lack of stuffiness in any book that starts out with an article on why “bad English” isn’t the end of civilization after all. “Nothing,” notes columnist (and Verbatim editor) Erin McKean, “is as irksome as to be forced (wearing a polite smile, rapidly souring to a grimace) to listen to someone’s tirade, rant, or polemic against ‘today’s English’.” He goes on to talk about the fluidity and evolution of language and how the “good English” being upheld by the purists today would more than likely clash terribly with the “good English” of even two hundred years ago.

I like these folks. Each article is absolutely fascinating, occasionally hilarious (as the one examining the odd reluctance of dictionaries to properly define “sexual intercourse” and the entry on American place names). The article I just finished reading, “English as she is spoke”, talks about a guidebook to the English language written by a Portugese gentleman named Jose de Fonseca (who, unfortunately, spoke no actual English himself). I’d never heard of him before, but apparently he produced a phrase book that endures as a masterpiece of mistakes. It’s not just that the individual examples taken from this book are appallingly funny–they make me wince with recognition. I’ve long wondered just how the hell anyone learning English can learn such a horribly fractured form as to think that “In case FIRE, avert the boots”, to choose just one example from this article, is at all comprehensible. Understanding that “avert” is taken from avertir–French for warn and that boots is taken from an old nickname for hotel servants, makes the mistakes rather more understandable.

This article alone gives me a lot more tolerance for the fractured speech of some ESL folks, because I now truly understand that they are very probably teaching themselves, or being taught from, a book rather like Forseca’s (which was first published in 1855 and remains in print to this day, clearly labeled as a historical curiosity and amusement to avoid anyone actually trying to use it as a phrase book). Or they’re working from understandable misinterpretations such as the one noted above.

As a writer, articles like this are pure gold. Want to fracture up some speech in your books? This article practially maps out the process, as far as I’m concerned. Insert a Forseca-style guidebook into your fictional world and watch the fun start!

I could go through and rave about every article in here, but I’ll content myself with a blanket statement that for a writer, I suggest that this book–and checking out the Verbatim magazine itself–is an absolute necessity.

That latter option is a bit tricky, unfortunately; the founding father, Laurence Urdang, passed away in 2008; the last post on the website appears to be from December of that same year. The independant publisher, Stein & Day, who once distributed the print magazine, went out of business in the late 1980s. I see no further trace of the magazine; there are two Verbatims listed on Facebook, but one is a law review journal and the other an odd lit-mag type of thing. A quick Google search yields no announcements that the magazine has folded; it appears to have merely stopped midstream, as it were. So if someone out there knows whether the magazine is still viable, I’d love to get my hands on a subscription, belated as that desire may be; and if someone happens to have a trove of back issues, I would be deeply grateful to get my hands on those!

In the meanwhile, I suggest picking up a copy of this book. It’s fantastic–and I don’t say that often or lightly, as those readers familiar with my reviews at Green Man Review and the Sleeping Hedgehog already know well.

Now–on to the next, and to all a good read! ;-p

 

About Responding to Editing Comments…

Editing is far more than just pointing out grammatical mistakes and correcting typos. Editing, done right, takes a lot of time and consideration on the part of the editor. Comments are not made casually, phrases are not inverted without good reason, and questions are not asked for the fun of tweaking the author’s nose.

I’m barely getting started on being a freelance editor, and I can already tell you one big, important truth: if the editor says something isn’t working, it really isn’t working. If the editor tells you that lovely paragraph of description, the one that you’re sooooo proud of and worked soooo hard on, needs to go–that means that your lovely paragraph of description is, in your editor’s opinion, a bloody mess from start to finish.*

In that moment, you may well want to pick up a dull spoon and dig the editor’s heart out of his or her chest.

You have three choices when you run into a flat-out “you’re out of your mind” moment of disagreement on both sides–and it will happen. With every single editor, with every single book, it will happen. Before I tell you those choices, I’m going to back up and explain a little bit more about what editing is and is not, for the author.

Editing is not about the author merely agreeing or disagreeing with proposed changes. Editing, on the author’s side, involves sitting back and actually thinking about the suggestions and comments. (Whoah, harsh, right?) The author has to take the time to really consider what’s been said, and whether, in some aspect, it’s “right” for this particular story–and if not, why not.

The author is in charge–at least when I edit–to a certain point; style rules for publishing houses vary, of course, and some changes must be made. But if an editor says something doesn’t make sense or doesn’t work, that’s usually not a statement of the editor’s incompetency–it means the author hasn’t presented the moment clearly. Fixing that requires thought, and slowing down to sort out what’s missing and how to show it more clearly in the author’s–not the editor’s–”voice”.

Whether you’ve sold a story or are just working with a freelance editor to improve it for future sales, it’s still your story. Inevitably, an editor will point out a flaw that you don’t think is a flaw at all–and you’ll think that editor is an idiot who couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag. That’s normal. That’s ego, defending you against the hurt of being wrong. Every single writer goes through that at some point. The trick is managing that resistance in a professional and useful manner. The trick is in being assertive without being rude.

Perhaps the deadliest reaction is to explain youself. Just as in a writing group–more so, in fact, than with a writing group–never, ever try to explain to an editor. It is entirely possible that the editor was wrong or missed/forgot something. Any truly competent editor will admit that right up front. You can have discussions about contentious points without falling into the explaining trap.

Discussion: “I want to paint a very clear picture of what the character is wearing here. Which details, exactly, do you think are excessive?” — “I think you can safely cut, x, y, and z, and still present a clear image of the character’s essential style” — “Oh, I see! *rearranges and rewords a bit* How’s this?” — “PERFECT. Brilliant. Moving right along…”

vs.

Explaining: “No, see, the reason I go into detail on every item of clothing the character is wearing is because she’s very style conscious and I worked really hard on that description and my readers really like that stuff” — “So what? Six paragraphs about what one person is wearing–in the middle of a chase scene, while things are blowing up all around them–is too much detail in the wrong place.” — “But I want to keep it! It’s important that the reader knows that the character dresses well! It took me hours and hours to write that description! It’s part of my writing voice! You just don’t appreciate my style!” — *sound of the editor’s head hitting the desk repeatedly*

On the other hand, I recently had a client point out that a phrase I’d cut was, in his eyes, an essential clue to something important; that opened up a discussion of what, exactly, the secret fact was, and how he could insert hints in other spots to clue the reader in; the discussion improved the book immeasurably, we’re both happy with the result–and he’s a better writer, and I’m a better editor, for the time taken to hash it out.

So your three options, as an author, on receiving editorial feedback: One, treat it as an insult and an intrusion, argue over every comma change, and constantly complain that the editor “doesn’t get it”, is changing your “voice”, is trampling your style, and is an utter, incompetent hack that couldn’t be trusted to edit cereal box copy.

I’ll tell you from experience just what happens the moment you even look like you’re going to set foot on that road: you get the bare minimum of edits so that the editor can get that project the hell off his massively overcrowded desk and move on to projects that won’t be an ongoing migraine. You just screwed yourself out of what could have been a great learning experience, and that editor will never work with you again.** 

Second option: Meekly accept everything the editor says, because they are the Voice of God; only raise your voice in a whispering protest when you’re really, terribly outraged over something they want to change, and let them trample you at every turn. As a subset of this option, you can nurse your wounds and never allow an editor to touch your work ever again (i.e., self-publish), or you can complain to all of your friends and allies about what a terrible editor this person was.

Problem with that option being, editors aren’t gods, and we miss stuff like anyone else. If you don’t stand up for your manuscript, for your vision, who the hell else will? It’s not the editor’s job to do so. It’s your job to protect your manuscript. And if you complain too much in back rooms, unless you can prove that your prose was indeed award-winning material before the editor mangled it, all you’re doing is earning yourself a reputation as a difficult author to work with; reference option one about how that winds up eventually.

I won’t say anything about the self-publishing option, because that’s a firestorm I’m just not opening up, pro or con. I’m making a point about editing here.

Option three is to see your editor as a partner; someone who genuinely wants what’s best for you and your manuscript, but who may not entirely understand your vision just yet (rumors to the contrary, we’re not actually psychic). This option allows you to have a discussion, as noted above; allows both sides to argue back and forth, and dig their heels in, and yell at one another if they feel the need–and in the next instant, crack jokes, reverse their positions without warning, and come up with screwball, out-of-left-field fixes for plot holes that wind up meshing in perfectly. That approach is where editing gets fun. And that approach is where editors and authors alike get to learn and grow.

I’ve been blessed with a great editor. I’ve had my work hacked apart by bad ones. Years ago, I made one web site pull my name from every article I ever wrote for them, because they’d completely changed my work and put an unacceptable bias into some carefully objective pieces. I’m extremely fierce about protecting my words.

But when they’re the wrong words, they’re the wrong words. And, folks? At the end of the day–however hard you sweated over them and searched through dictionaries and thesauri and great works of poetry and the works of your favoritest ever writers–they’re just words. If a phrase or description or gimmick or trick you just loooooved runs into a stone wall of editorial disapproval and you just can’t find a compromise position anywhere–let it go. Set it aside to use in another book. Maybe it’ll fit better there. Maybe you’ll learn where the flaw is and how to fix it.

Seriously. Words are important, sure, they inspire, they hurt, they carry a massive impact throughout our entire lives. But when it comes to writing a book–and especially when it comes to responding to editorial comments–remember–it’s all just words.

Don’t get too attached to them. There’s lots more where those came from***….

*After-thoughts: I was perhaps too harsh in using the term “bloody mess”. I personally, on further reflection, don’t always think something I tell a client is “not working” is really that bad–but I also think that the strong language used in the post conveys the point better than waffling around about “sometimes” situations. As I think I’ve said at some prior point, I’m not going to be able to make everyone happy–and waffling statements don’t convey the point nearly as well as strong, definite language. I’d rather be too harsh than stay safely in the grey, non-offensive area…

**After-thoughts: This is of course not true of every editor. Some are bloody-minded enough to shove through the client’s resistance and persuade them of the changes. I do my best to do so; I want every client’s book to be the absolute best it can be. I have found, though, that the more time I need to spend explaining why I’m suggesting a given change, and defending it against multiple rounds of “but that’s just my style!”, the less time I have to spend on actual editing–and the less patience I have for explaining myself further. Extrapolating from my experience to that of the big house editors, who are doubtlessly far more overworked and overstressed than myself, and I begin to understand the crappy editing jobs that seem so prevalent these days. The miracle may be that any really good editing ever gets done, actually….

***After-thoughts: One of the most frequent complaints I’ve had about my editing is that I often wind up cutting  huge chunks of unnecessary, repetitive material from the manuscript (between five and ten thousand words, on average). This loss of excess wordage causes most authors intense distress, understandably enough. The irony here is that each of my own books somehow grew longer in editorial…and I’d expected to (and prepared myself to) see them shrink considerably. Go figure….