How Twilight Ruined My Life

All right, that’s a bit of overstatement. I don’t actually have anything against Twilight, per se, though I have heard that it’s not the most feminist story in the world. But I’ve never read the books or seen the movies so I can’t pass judgment on that, and I have nothing against the paranormal or romance. Then why is it the bain of my existence?

Vampires. Everywhere. All bloodsuckers, all the time.

You might remember from previous Rib posts that I am writing a vampire story. I started it prior to the current mania that has everyone panting like Renfield.  All of a sudden there are vampire books, movies, t.v. shows out the ying yang, none of which I read or watch and yet cannot escape thanks to modern advertising. Consequently, I am getting a little tired of vampires.

Yes, Rib readers, I AM GETTING SICK OF MY OWN STORY. This is a crime against nature. It is not supposed to happen until one’s editor demands the 37th rewrite.

It doesn’t help that now when people find out what I’m writing, they immediately think Eddie-Bella-Sookie-Buffy-Anita-Lestat Rip Off. You get the knowing little smile, or the carefully blank expression, or even the eye roll. Those are the polite ones. The more forthright just say it: “Reading Twilight, are you?”

Derivative is a fightin’ word and makes my muse wanna get all up in their face. “Hey, I was writing my story before Edward was a sparkle in Stephanie Meyers’ eye! And my vampire isn’t an emo refugee from Teen Beat!”

But you know, what are you gonna do? Whatever’s going on out there, you have to “fill your paper with the breathings of your heart,” as Wordsworth said.  So I’ll write my story, and eventually when editors send rejection letters that say “Oh, honey, vampires are so 2010,” I will just wait another ten years to resubmit it. And maybe then I’ll get to ruin some other writer’s life.

Editor humor

“Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.” - Author Unknown

And the winner is….

Not me! [bows]

Ah, the joys of working in online retail during the holiday season. We are down two managers this year, so guess who’s doing double-duty? And when work makes me sit at a computer for 12 hours a day, at home I just can’t sit no more.

I gave up on this year’s NaNo when the 20th rolled around and I realized I would have to do 4000 words a day to make 50K and oh hahahaha, that was never going to happen. My thumbs and forefingers are already going numb from carpal tunnel and there are days when my ass actually hurts from sitting on it.

It was hard to give up at first, but then I figured hey, I have a pretty good reason this year.  Unlike the last two NaNos when I wanted to give up just because writing is haaaaarrrd - yes I’ll take cheese with my whine, thank you - but Kevin convinced me to nut up and finish, quality be damned.

There’s always next year. And by then the 2 new managers we hired yesterday won’t be making more work than they are doing (ideally) and I might have a life during the holidays.

But this December, ye old Rib might be a little quieter than usual, though I do love Christmas and may need a place to come and sing its praises since everybody else is sick of it already.  Just sayin’ if you don’t see a plethora of posts for a while, it’s because I am literally trying to save my ass.

(Somebody else) On the suckitude that is the current trend of enfeebled heroines

Today whilst procrastinating, I read this recent review/rant by Righteous Rib the Rejectionist about the current trend in (mosty YA) waify, weeny heroines whose very existence depends upon the “love” of a hunky vamp/were/whatever that is stalking them:

So all we can say is: KNOCK IT OFF. Knock off buying this shit, and knock off cranking it out. It is tough enough being a lady in this world, Author-friends, without having it hammered into our goddamn heads that we’re STILL supposed to sit tight, shut up, and look pretty. We are NOT HAVING IT. If anybody around here gets to be a werewolf, it’s gonna be US. And we will eat you right up, believe it.

Preach it, sista.

Technorati Tags: books, reading, writing

Notes from a Humble Reader

In an attempt to enrich my fiction-writin’ skills, I’ve been expanding my novel-readin’ horizons. It’s not that historically I’ve stuck to any preferred subject matter, but I have tended to eschew genre fiction. I think the last mass-market paperback I read was probably The Vampire Lestat in 1987.¹

But since my writing renaissance two years ago, I’ve been reading more widely.  “Write the book you’d want to read” has inspired me to explore more specifically what that is. And besides, I can never have too many reasons to buy more books.

So I’ve been reading with abandon, pretty much any book that’s grabbed me after a two-minute perusal in the bookstore.  A fun premise. Interesting-sounding characters. The occasional irresistible book cover. I haven’t given up mainstream, just branched out as far into the genre forest as I can go. At this point, about the only one not represented on the shelf is hard-boiled mystery because none of them have appealed to me yet (give it time).

And what I’ve learned so far is that - surprise - I don’t care for most genre fiction. In fact, most of the novels I’ve read in the past year have been just fair-to-middlin’, which for some reason has surprised me. Here’s what’s made the shortlist:  The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, Lonely Werewolf Girl by Martin Millar, The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman, The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters I and II by Gordon Dahlquist, and most recently The Gargoyle, by Andrew Davidson.

All these books kept me up past my bedtime, but identifying the source of their magic has not been so straightforward. They couldn’t be more different in style and structure; about the only thing they have in common is their fantasy element.

After much rendering of garments and gnashing of teeth, I’ve come to the conclusion that what does it for me in a book is not what it’s “about” but how it’s written.

Hopeful Writer says: Duh. But Humble Reader is all: OK fine, but what does that mean exactly? I must analyze this further.

Here is her preliminary report, transcribed from the original neat block script in her trusty moleskin notebook:

1. The Internal Adventure. It’s not that I don’t like action; I do, but I don’t want to follow a cardboard protagonist around while she’s doing it. A lot of books are as short on complex characters as they are long on convoluted plots or intellectually interesting ideas. This is ok once and a while; I’ve read a few hardcore sci-fi and Stephanie Plum books and enjoyed them. But in general I want to live vicariously through a character that changes more than just her underwear in the course of the story. The author has to get me into her heart and mind.
2. Mindful writing. Clichés are the primary ingredient in that famous snake oil, Doctor Author’s Instant Story Flattener, which is apparently irresistible to a lot of writers. If I read one more time about someone’s heart pounding against her ribs like a bird trapped in a cage, or someone laughing mirthlessly, or eyes darkening with rage, I may scream like a banshee.
3. Funny. Now, let me ‘esplain. There’s lots of types of funny - witty, wry, ironic, total goof-ball, etc. For me, the more serious the book’s subject matter, the more I require at least some sort of comic relief. I have a very hard time connecting to totally humorless writing, especially that which takes itself Very Seriously (which is, alas, common in gothic fantasy).  And don’t get me started on the current affliction many authors seem to have of mistaking snark for wit. Ugh.
4. Hopeful endings. Hopeful, not necessarily happy.  I have nothing against either happy or unhappy endings. What I care about is whether the protagonist learned anything. Because to me, learning something new is always hopeful, even if she didn’t get the guy or the Earth blew up or the vampire got away.  Life is too short to waste reading about how rotten things were-are-and-ever-shall-be-the-end.
5. Lurv.  I say it loud, say it proud: I am a romantic. True, I don’t read genre romances, but mainly because I like my lovin’ woven into a broader experience. Love is an essential ingredient for me in my fiction as it is in my life. In other words, for me, a story with no love in it is no story at all.

A brief list but probably not for long; Humble Reader has found she rather enjoys finding things for that attention-hogging Hopeful Writer to do.

1. Which I loved and re-read at least twice. I still have it. It’s falling apart. [↩]

Writing as survival strategy

In college, I wrote fiction for my creative writing classes, but once I graduated and it was no longer a Have-to, I stopped. Since writing is as much a part of me as my kneecaps, I continued to write, but almost exclusively expository pieces. It wasn’t until Nanowrimo in 2007 that I rediscovered how much I can enjoy fiction.

Since then, writing fiction has once again become a Have-to, but in an entirely different way: I have to do it in order to retain what little of my sanity hasn’t been eroded away by the all-too-frequent mind-numbingly dull episodes in daily life.

I know this sounds like a really unliterary reason to write, and all the Be Here Now folks are clucking their tongues at my inability to see the beauty and complexity of the Universe in a humble Post-it.

But seriously, what do you think William Faulkner was doing all day whilst licking stamps in that Oxford, Mississippi post office? What’s Stephen King thinking about in that DMV line? Betcha dollars to donuts they were either pondering the plot of their latest creative endeavor, or making mental notes on the people or place around them for use in it.

When they talk about ennui, they’re talking about the suburb of adulthood, where everything from the car to conversation is a politically correct, non-confrontational shade of beige and there are no flamingos on the lawn. Even the things that bring us great joy can take on a patina of predictability.  Most people don’t want to admit we live here but, well, studies show most people think they’re smarter than average, too.

It’s the human condition to become conditioned to things. Like how the first couple bites of chocolate tastes like Manna from Heaven and the rest takes like… chocolate.

My actual job, the stuff I do when they let me work, is good. It’s just a job, but it does not suck. The meetings I have to go to, however - now they suck big, stinky, diseased goats. And my commute, though shorter that it once was, can still put me to a catatonic trance (that’s bad). Then there’s any car trip longer than an hour, endless lines at the store and post office, and the occasional obligatory spousal event I must attend.¹

And thus I began my 38th year considering embarking on a second career in crime, taking up extreme tourism, or getting a full-body tattoo.

But lo! Who is that cresting yonder hill, sitting tall upon the back of a mighty steed and brandishing aloft a shining pen? Tis the muse come to rescue me from the brink of disaster!

Which is to say she threatened me with a certain painful and bloody death if I were to sully her sleek, alabaster hotness with that tattoo. In return for my restraint, she gives me an everlasting and ever-varying assortment of fluorescent plastic ornaments to scatter freely about the grassy plains of my mind.

1. No, not that kind of spousal event. Get your mind out of the gutter! [↩]

Do you Nano?

Only three more weeks until Kevin dusts off his halo and dons his “I’m a lover, not a writer” t-shirt in support of my annual journey through the Sumatra-colored underworld that is National Novel Writing Month.

This will be my third year doing Nanowrimo. I can say with equal parts pride and humility that though I “won” the last two Nanos, pounding out 50K words in 30 days, it is my opinion that thus assembled, they only vaguely resemble a novel.

But luckily producing publishable prose is not the point of Nano. It’s all about bragging rights.  On your death bed, you get to say you wrote a novel and cross at least one thing off the bucket list.  It’s also a wonderful exercise in exorcising the Inner Critic. For one month a year, you have permission to tell the AntiMuse to fuck directly off, do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Which is not to say it’s not hard. It is. I really bloody is.  By the end of November, my ass is two centimeters flatter and wider, my eyeballs feel like dirty sandpaper, and my fingertips are as smooth and red as a baby’s proverbial bottom. My brain is weary of daily internal battles with my Evil Twin. But, as Kevin so wisely and infuriatingly told me the first year, it’s the hard that makes it great.

Thus as I prepare mentally and physically for this year’s grueling event, I ponder its most important decision: Which brag badge should I use when I update Rib readers of my progress or lack thereof?

I love the design this year, but I can’t decide on the color. Would the orange one clash with my beloved red? Does this shade of blue make me look fat?

Technorati Tags: National Novel Writing Month, writing

Favorite

When I get stuck in my writing, one of the things I do to snap out of it is play on Flickr.  I love to thumb my nose at a bullying linear mind with the symbol, color and emotion of art. I favorite the most inspiring images.

I have a lot of Flickr favorites (if that tells you anything about my writing this past year). I thought I’d start sharing them.

I’ve been stuck in my story since the last few days of my vacation and haven’t known why. Its been unclear to me if it’s problem with the plot, a characer, my writing, or what.  A few times, I’ve railed at the Muse in despair. What am I missing? What do I need?

Yesterday I went to my Flickr faves and picked an image by clicking randomly on a thumbnail. The thumbnails are tiny so you can’t really see them; it’s like plopping your finger down on a name in a page of the phone book.  I landed on this one.

Last night, I watched “Saving Grace” which I rented from Netflix without knowing what it was about. It’s about a self-destructive cop who gets saddled with a fat, snaggle-toothed, tobacco-chewing angel named Earl.

Before bed, I started a new book. The necromance protagonist has a “dark angel” accompanying her on her capers.

This morning I clicked randomly again in the thumbnails. Result below.

I’m not exactly sure what the Muse is trying to tell me, but I’m beginning to get the theme.

Edmund Dulac–Edgar Allan Poe-The Bells Poem, originally uploaded by finsbury.

Technorati Tags: writing, Flickr, angels

Lazy days

I’m still on vacation and nothing is “have to.”

When I’m not reading¹ or walking by the lake or puttering in my garden, I’m working on my novel.

And enjoying the last beautiful, balmy day before the Roast. The upside is that when it hits, I’ll be in an air conditioned office building.

Barão Puttkamer, Eu Sei Tudo, No. 6, November 1924, originally uploaded by Gatochy.

1. Currently The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Such talent. Sigh. [↩]

My queendom for a blog post

I know that’s what you’re all saying. Lucky for you I won’t require all your worldly possessions. But beware. You get what you pay for.

Most of the time when I don’t blog often, it’s because:

1. My ass hurts. I sit at a computer rewriting other people’s crappy stuff for about 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. Before work and on the weekends, I sit at a computer and write my own crappy stuff (though some days that means less actual typing than staring at the blank screen, willing it to magically resemble a fiction manuscript).  So when I have “free time,” I often can’t bear to spend it sitting at a computer.

2.  Inspiration is lost in self-induced oversaturation (you do not want to know how many feeds I subscribe to) and/or temporary wipe-the-brain-clean devastation (how many articles about the murder of Dr. Tiller can one read before all thoughts about it become “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH”?).

3.  I’ve lost the will to live. OK, this one hasn’t happened yet. But you never know… my head is not a safe place to go alone.

Anyway, I have several posts written in my head that I hope to get onto the interwebs between now and Sunday. The working title of one of them is “Writing & Exercise: Separated At Birth?”  Another one is about tinnitus, tentatively titled “It’s Always Something.”

Did I warn you or what?¹

Technorati Tags: exercise, writing, tinnitus

1. No, I am not drunk blogging. But that does sound good right now. TGI almost F. [↩]