wish I’d known this five years ago

There are so many different kinds of writing and so many ways to work that the only rule is this: do what works. Almost everything has been tried and found to succeed for somebody. The methods, even the ideas of successful writers contradict each other in a most heartening way, and the only element I find common to all successful writers is persistence – an overwhelming determination to succeed.

Sophy Burnham

craziness and foolishness and madness

If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.

— Ray Bradbury

on sucking and why we we can’t stop

a.k.a. “don’t let the dogs out” or “insert creative title here part 2″

What I’ve learned to do when I sit down to work on a shitty first draft is to quiet the voices in my head. First there’s the vinegar-lipped Reader Lady, who says primly, “Well, that’s not very interesting, is it?” And there’s the emaciated German male who writes these Orwellian memos detailing your thought crimes. And there are your parents, agonizing over your lack of loyalty and discretion; and there’s William Bur­roughs, dozing off or shooting up because he finds you as bold and articulate as a houseplant; and so on. And there are also the dogs: let’s not forget the dogs, the dogs in their pen who will surely hurtle and snarl their way out if you ever stop writing, because writing is, for some of us, the latch that keeps the door of the pen closed, keeps those crazy ravenous dogs contained.

~ Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

whatwhat in the butt

I don’t read genre romance (not hatin’, just not my cuppa) but I read Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. Why? Because teh Bitches are smart about writing, feminist about romance, and coffee-snortingly funny about everything, and I do mean everything:

I will state upfront that I had an ulterior motive for reading this book. I read it for the anal.

Yup, you read that right. Blazing anal. Blazing the Hershey highway. Firing up the backdoor action. Hot poop chute lovin’. Avast me hearties, there be anal in this novel.

[..] But this is easily one of the most boring Blazes I’ve ever read. Even with the anal. Lackluster anal, can you imagine?

Srsly, they should put a sticky at the top of their blog, like Warning: Contents may cause co-worker-startling guffaws, accidental aspiration of beverage, and sympathetic snarkiness.

I’ve learned as much about writing from the Bitches’ book reviews as I have from any instruction book. For example, in this particular post we ponder the potential pitfalls of poor characterization:

There’s a scene where Bryna eats Cocoa Puffs while reading Thoreau, and I’m not sure what that was supposed to say about her, though I hope she brushed her teeth because those things stick to your molars like whoa and damn hell.

If I hadn’t been lured by the promise of extremely questionable anal sex, I wouldn’t have read past the halfway point. This book is just so dull and wooden and the characters are such schmucks, I wouldn’t have cared about their happy ending because I didn’t like either of them. I thought he was a sexist tool wad and she was a judgmental twerp with questionable taste and limited business skills.

But then, there was whatwhat in the butt.

This is just a few lines; read the rest of the post at your own risk. Your sinuses may never forgive you.

writing violent

I recommend reading the whole article if you have time.

The serious writer, after all, bears witness. [...] So the serious male writer is allowed his vision and takes as his rightful subject a world as vast as Dostoyevsky’s Russia, or Melville’s oceans or Faulkner’s ”postage stamp of earth” in Mississippi. One does not inquire of them, ”Why is your writing so violent?”’

….

”You had an unhappy childhood, Miss Oates?” -asked with quizzical smiles, some measure of pity, sympathy. ”You were often frightened by life?”

….

If the lot of womankind has not yet widely diverged from that romantically envisioned by our Moral Majority and by the late Adolf Hitler (”Kirche, Kinder, Kuchen”), the lot of the woman writer has been just as severely circumscribed. War, rape, murder and the more colorful minor crimes evidently fall within the exclusive province of the male writer, just as, generally, they fall within the exclusive province of male action.

~ from Why Is Your Writing So Violent?, Joyce Carol Oates, New York Times, March 29 1981