From Jen Nadol:
"I’m participating in Jenn Hubbard’s library-loving blog challenge!
For every commenter on this post between now and Friday, March 26th at 5pm EST, I’ll donate $1 to Berks County Public Libraries up to $150 total.
Berks County is where I grew up and the libraries there, the ones that had a real impact on me. I remember being ten and loving the feeling of walking to my library, knowing I could pick anything to read from all those books. I can still picture exactly where Pardon Me You’re Stepping on My Eyeball was shelved.
Pennsylvania has had huge budget reductions this year that cut library funding by nearly 30%, limiting hours and eliminating jobs and programs. This seemed like the right place to direct my donation.
So, here’s how it works: you comment, I donate, the library gets a gift! If you don’t know what to say, “I love libraries” or the name of your local branch or the last book you checked out or just “HI!” will all do just fine.
I’m pledging “per commenter”—so if a single person leaves 50 comments, that still only counts once, but you can do more by spreading the word … please link to this post, tweet about it, and send your friends here so they can comment and raise more money.
For a complete list of participating bloggers (and to visit other sites where you can help libraries just by leaving a comment!) visit Jennifer R. Hubbard’s blog at http://writerjenn.livejournal.com/
Thanks for helping us help libraries!"
Help her and the other participating bloggers out!!
Friday, March 26, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Respect and growing up
My brother is a minister. Now, before you go rolling your eyes and making assumptions, I'll say that he certainly comes from that whole 'non-judgmental,' we truly want to help mindset of Christians. He and I were both raised to love everyone, to give to others, to be there with counsel and support when asked. He and I, however, don't always see eye-to-eye politically.
This isn't going to be a long diatribe about the Health Care Reform bill being passed, because I'm sure many of you are like me and are vastly exhausted at hearing the complaints and debate about this very sensitive topic.
This post is merely about respect. You see, though I love my brother and though I can honestly say he is the solitary person in my entire life that has never, ever disappointed me or let me down, he is, like me, very stubborn. When he believes something, it is with every fiber of his nature. He is passionate and sincere and fiercely loyal. But again, we don't discuss politics. We can't. Our opinions differ too much. But what I learned today after texting and tweeting back and forth with him over this Health Care issue, is that, remarkably, we have changed.
It wasn't long ago that we couldn't discuss anything political without either of us getting worked up because we both believe in our confictions passionately. Yet today we let each other voice opinions. We listed facts, we gave each other the space and platform to speak our minds.
It was miraculous. Lord above, have we grown up? Surely not!
The fact is, when you love someone or even remotely care about them, the necessity to let them be the people they are, surfaces. You cannot change anyone. You cannot enforce your ideals down someone's throat. You cannot insinuate your beliefs into someone and still let them be an individual. Relationships, even sibling relationships, need to be fostered over time. They need to be nurtured and coddled so that both parties are allowed to spread their respective wings.
That line of thinking can also reflect what makes us a great nation. This idea that we can argue, have varying opinions, protest and march and rage against injustice without ramifications is a blessing. It's a freedom we are given, innately, when we become a citizen.
Citizenship is like a good relationship: it is something that none of us really know how to manage when we're young. We fight and argue or blatantly ignore what is given to us until a time when we grow, when we mature, when things begin to matter.
Respect is essential in each. If you don't voice your opinion, if you don't vote, if you don't try to heal rifts or mend broken hearts, then you don't deserve either. Being a good sister, a good wife, a good mother are things I desire most. Being a good citizen, is something that I strive to do everyday. It isn't easy, but then what in life is?
The point is to take your relationship (with your significant other, with your family or friends OR with your country), and embrace it. Let it grow, let it evolve. If you do none of these things, then you fester in your journey for happiness. If you are complacent in that journey, then it because ridiculously arduous when it really needn't be.
This isn't going to be a long diatribe about the Health Care Reform bill being passed, because I'm sure many of you are like me and are vastly exhausted at hearing the complaints and debate about this very sensitive topic.
This post is merely about respect. You see, though I love my brother and though I can honestly say he is the solitary person in my entire life that has never, ever disappointed me or let me down, he is, like me, very stubborn. When he believes something, it is with every fiber of his nature. He is passionate and sincere and fiercely loyal. But again, we don't discuss politics. We can't. Our opinions differ too much. But what I learned today after texting and tweeting back and forth with him over this Health Care issue, is that, remarkably, we have changed.
It wasn't long ago that we couldn't discuss anything political without either of us getting worked up because we both believe in our confictions passionately. Yet today we let each other voice opinions. We listed facts, we gave each other the space and platform to speak our minds.
It was miraculous. Lord above, have we grown up? Surely not!
The fact is, when you love someone or even remotely care about them, the necessity to let them be the people they are, surfaces. You cannot change anyone. You cannot enforce your ideals down someone's throat. You cannot insinuate your beliefs into someone and still let them be an individual. Relationships, even sibling relationships, need to be fostered over time. They need to be nurtured and coddled so that both parties are allowed to spread their respective wings.
That line of thinking can also reflect what makes us a great nation. This idea that we can argue, have varying opinions, protest and march and rage against injustice without ramifications is a blessing. It's a freedom we are given, innately, when we become a citizen.
Citizenship is like a good relationship: it is something that none of us really know how to manage when we're young. We fight and argue or blatantly ignore what is given to us until a time when we grow, when we mature, when things begin to matter.
Respect is essential in each. If you don't voice your opinion, if you don't vote, if you don't try to heal rifts or mend broken hearts, then you don't deserve either. Being a good sister, a good wife, a good mother are things I desire most. Being a good citizen, is something that I strive to do everyday. It isn't easy, but then what in life is?
The point is to take your relationship (with your significant other, with your family or friends OR with your country), and embrace it. Let it grow, let it evolve. If you do none of these things, then you fester in your journey for happiness. If you are complacent in that journey, then it because ridiculously arduous when it really needn't be.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Stop hitting me, Muse
So, I’ve weaned myself off obsessively reading blogs and following certain tweets, (with the exception of my favorites to cyber stalk…sorry, Kim, apologies, Carrie). But, for the most part, this little reprieve has focused my attention and pulled the muse back to my mind kicking and screaming. Oh, that silly little thing is there, even though she’s reluctant to share her gift with me today.
I think she’s mad I left her there while reading Richelle Mead’s series (for a few days) instead of writing. Sorry, Muse, couldn’t help it. Good one, that series.
In any event, I finished my short story. There’s no other way to describe it other than to say that it’s a post-apocalyptic love story. That sounds equal parts menacing and saccharine, but it’s neither, really. The point is, I finished. And, *touches wood* I am a bit proud of it. It’s all things SciFi meets allegory, but with a twist. Finally, almost two years after I finished writing my novel, I have jumped back in and actually completed something. This is a very, very good thing for me.
I did not stop there, with the short story. It’s continued on and I’m near to completion with a second short story I began about six months ago. Once this one is out of the way and both shorts have been edited and refined, I can finally start writing that Feminist Fairy Tale novel that has been bouncing around in my head for ages. (Possibly, the idea for the novel is just my mind’s response to the Muse stomping her feet, but whatever).
An enjoyable birthday brought with it a shiny new laptop thanks to the hubby so writing has become much more convenient. No screaming girls, no needy puppies wanting my full attention. I can now close the door, settle in and write, uninterrupted. That, my friends, is a very helpful thing.
In any event, I think I’ve got my mojo back…something I’ve been missing quite a bit.
I think she’s mad I left her there while reading Richelle Mead’s series (for a few days) instead of writing. Sorry, Muse, couldn’t help it. Good one, that series.
In any event, I finished my short story. There’s no other way to describe it other than to say that it’s a post-apocalyptic love story. That sounds equal parts menacing and saccharine, but it’s neither, really. The point is, I finished. And, *touches wood* I am a bit proud of it. It’s all things SciFi meets allegory, but with a twist. Finally, almost two years after I finished writing my novel, I have jumped back in and actually completed something. This is a very, very good thing for me.
I did not stop there, with the short story. It’s continued on and I’m near to completion with a second short story I began about six months ago. Once this one is out of the way and both shorts have been edited and refined, I can finally start writing that Feminist Fairy Tale novel that has been bouncing around in my head for ages. (Possibly, the idea for the novel is just my mind’s response to the Muse stomping her feet, but whatever).
An enjoyable birthday brought with it a shiny new laptop thanks to the hubby so writing has become much more convenient. No screaming girls, no needy puppies wanting my full attention. I can now close the door, settle in and write, uninterrupted. That, my friends, is a very helpful thing.
In any event, I think I’ve got my mojo back…something I’ve been missing quite a bit.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Kudos, ladies
I was siphoned down into a Who Dat victory haze/Mardi Gras madness and simply couldn't bring myself to post. But yes, since my last entry, wonders of wonders, the Saints won the Superbowl. There are no proper words in existence that can describe to you my elation at this victory. It's unfathomable. Unfathomable, yes, but utterly elating as well.
Since the game I’ve refocused on writing, but am finding myself distracted which is never a good thing. We’re in the process of DIY renovations— at a ridiculous scale— and that coupled with Ms. Kim’s new release, I’ve been a great, fat procrastinator. This is no good. So I won’t waste your time waxing on not even a bit poetically about my thoughts, ideas or inspiration. I’ll just leave you with a big woo hoo at two of my most favorite people to cyber stalk (teasing) having made the NY Time Best Seller’s list. One for the first time, I believe. So a huge congrats to Kim Harrison (at 3) and Carrie Ryan (at 8 in paperback). Love both these ladies and truly think these kudos are well deserved!
Since the game I’ve refocused on writing, but am finding myself distracted which is never a good thing. We’re in the process of DIY renovations— at a ridiculous scale— and that coupled with Ms. Kim’s new release, I’ve been a great, fat procrastinator. This is no good. So I won’t waste your time waxing on not even a bit poetically about my thoughts, ideas or inspiration. I’ll just leave you with a big woo hoo at two of my most favorite people to cyber stalk (teasing) having made the NY Time Best Seller’s list. One for the first time, I believe. So a huge congrats to Kim Harrison (at 3) and Carrie Ryan (at 8 in paperback). Love both these ladies and truly think these kudos are well deserved!
Monday, January 25, 2010
More than a game
In its 43 year history the New Orleans Saints had never been much of a threat in the NFL. As a life-long resident of the state, I can tell you from personal experience that the Saints were, for the most part, a joke, an aside mentioned in discussions about The Big Easy. That’s all, nothing else. They were never taken seriously. Not ever, at least not in my childhood. That was, of course, until this season. Jokes no longer, they won the NFC playoffs and are heading to the Superbowl in two short weeks.
What many of you—and I'm speaking specifically to those of you who have no real concept of Louisianans and our past love/hate relationship with the team— may not understand is that the Saints being in the Superbowl is unbelievable. No, not unbelievable, more like unfathomable—unimaginable, incomprehensible.
We are headed to the Superbowl. That’s a statement akin to ‘I won the Lottery’ or ‘I just made the best seller’s list.’ It’s a dream, a fantasy, an inconceivable notion that has made many around me today mutter ‘Saints in the Superbowl? I guess the apocalypse is next.’
The thing is, for many of us, last night’s win was more than a team victory. Last night, New Orleans showed the world that though she has been battered and bruised, she was never broken. Katrina swooped in, the levees broke and the city became a tragedy, the paradigm of something most Americans watch happening worlds away, far removed from their pleasant realties. Something like this, just simply didn’t happen in America. In most of the world’s view— those who have no concept of the city’s way of life, her people, her culture, her history, her spirit— New Orleans was beaten. Her residents fled, many died. Childhood memories were destroyed, eradicated from tangible view. The vilest among her children seized the opportunity to wage war on the police, on the city itself, all in the name of brutality and indifference. People were murdered, some were raped, some left for dead in hospitals, some forgotten altogether. People died because the levees could stand no longer, because that laughable stereotype of ‘Louisiana politics’ was more than a rumor and our leaders had failed us, had failed the city.
Celebrities came in—some of them natives of the city. Some demanded help, demanded that rebuilding take place immediately, demanding to be heard, all the while trudging through thigh-high water with a film crew following them to document their ‘noble’ actions. There was a telethon, meant to help the rebuilding, used for some celebrities to cease a perfect PR moment, others to attack our witless president. Whatever the reason, whatever agenda initiated the Celebrity Do Gooders, the country came together, supported those made homeless, raised money for food, clothing, shelter while our state government began rebuilding. Rebuilding the levees exactly as they had been—preventing nothing should the city endure another storm of Katrina’s magnitude. Garbage piled up, crime rose, horrors occurred and capitalist in the city began giving ‘Katrina Tours,’ pointing out to hapless tourist the atrocities the city’s children endured, all for $25 a pop.
Still, among the returning residents, among the true city dwellers, her true children, there was a pride that would not depart. There was a burning love for the city that could not be squelched by river water, by violence, by the forgetfulness of their fellow countrymen. A love that showed itself last night. A love that could not be silence in the aftermath of the storm, could not be shaken by opportunist who lost their faith. That love became words, those word, a roaring cry. It said ‘we’re still here.’ It shouted, ‘we are survivors.’ It screamed ‘we believe.’
A comforting breeze came flowing through the Quarter, down into the mouth of the city, fluttering the trees Uptown and shaking tents at The Market. The city endured, as she has always and her children, the crowing mass of them, screamed out in victory, in the resounding bellows of power and mesmerizing joy last night.
‘We believe.’
It was this belief, not only in a football team that has made possible the renewal of New Orleans. It is this unyielding faith in the city, in her children that has endured. Throw water onto her belly and New Orleans will saunter away, unfazed. Knock her down and she will show you how a real lady handles herself. Believe right a long with her and you’ll see the meaning of true, unyielding fortitude, the heart of enviable strength.
What many of you—and I'm speaking specifically to those of you who have no real concept of Louisianans and our past love/hate relationship with the team— may not understand is that the Saints being in the Superbowl is unbelievable. No, not unbelievable, more like unfathomable—unimaginable, incomprehensible.
We are headed to the Superbowl. That’s a statement akin to ‘I won the Lottery’ or ‘I just made the best seller’s list.’ It’s a dream, a fantasy, an inconceivable notion that has made many around me today mutter ‘Saints in the Superbowl? I guess the apocalypse is next.’
The thing is, for many of us, last night’s win was more than a team victory. Last night, New Orleans showed the world that though she has been battered and bruised, she was never broken. Katrina swooped in, the levees broke and the city became a tragedy, the paradigm of something most Americans watch happening worlds away, far removed from their pleasant realties. Something like this, just simply didn’t happen in America. In most of the world’s view— those who have no concept of the city’s way of life, her people, her culture, her history, her spirit— New Orleans was beaten. Her residents fled, many died. Childhood memories were destroyed, eradicated from tangible view. The vilest among her children seized the opportunity to wage war on the police, on the city itself, all in the name of brutality and indifference. People were murdered, some were raped, some left for dead in hospitals, some forgotten altogether. People died because the levees could stand no longer, because that laughable stereotype of ‘Louisiana politics’ was more than a rumor and our leaders had failed us, had failed the city.
Celebrities came in—some of them natives of the city. Some demanded help, demanded that rebuilding take place immediately, demanding to be heard, all the while trudging through thigh-high water with a film crew following them to document their ‘noble’ actions. There was a telethon, meant to help the rebuilding, used for some celebrities to cease a perfect PR moment, others to attack our witless president. Whatever the reason, whatever agenda initiated the Celebrity Do Gooders, the country came together, supported those made homeless, raised money for food, clothing, shelter while our state government began rebuilding. Rebuilding the levees exactly as they had been—preventing nothing should the city endure another storm of Katrina’s magnitude. Garbage piled up, crime rose, horrors occurred and capitalist in the city began giving ‘Katrina Tours,’ pointing out to hapless tourist the atrocities the city’s children endured, all for $25 a pop.
Still, among the returning residents, among the true city dwellers, her true children, there was a pride that would not depart. There was a burning love for the city that could not be squelched by river water, by violence, by the forgetfulness of their fellow countrymen. A love that showed itself last night. A love that could not be silence in the aftermath of the storm, could not be shaken by opportunist who lost their faith. That love became words, those word, a roaring cry. It said ‘we’re still here.’ It shouted, ‘we are survivors.’ It screamed ‘we believe.’
A comforting breeze came flowing through the Quarter, down into the mouth of the city, fluttering the trees Uptown and shaking tents at The Market. The city endured, as she has always and her children, the crowing mass of them, screamed out in victory, in the resounding bellows of power and mesmerizing joy last night.
‘We believe.’
It was this belief, not only in a football team that has made possible the renewal of New Orleans. It is this unyielding faith in the city, in her children that has endured. Throw water onto her belly and New Orleans will saunter away, unfazed. Knock her down and she will show you how a real lady handles herself. Believe right a long with her and you’ll see the meaning of true, unyielding fortitude, the heart of enviable strength.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Fellowship of Dunces
It isn't the company you keep that follows you. It's the way you behave while in said company that marks your true nature. The huddled masses, whether we know them individually or not, tend to, when one allows themselves to be labeled, invoke a category, an assumption. It's pointless to contend with those stereotypes, with those assumptions. It's human nature to make blind generalizations. Sad, but true.
I work with many people who believe in absolutely nothing. There is no God, according to those individuals. There is no 'fairies making the flowers bloom or the sun rise.' (Direct quote, that). Believing in nothing seems, for many I know, a necessity, a purposeful comfort that I can neither understand or, to be honest, give little thought to. The point is, these individuals do not believe. I, however, do. Thanks to others that claim my label, because I do count myself as a Christian (I can see you rolling your eyes...can hear your heavy sighs), I find myself, more frequently lately explaining my ideals ad nauseam.
Thanks to the Jim Bakers and God above Pat Robertsons of the world, many assume that because I have faith, because I do 'believe,' my mindset and ideology is equal to those yahoos that belittle, judge and openly condemn those who do not believe.
Robertson, last week when the earthquake happened in Haiti, found it necessary to say that Haiti was cursed. (Though playing devil's advocate I believe the quote was pulled out of some long ago given interview) His contention was that historical Haitians had made a pact with the devil to rid the island of the French. They would practice Voodoo and 'the devil' would get rid of the French. Of course, it happened, right? I don't need to explain Haitian political history, do I?
But, once again, I found myself defending my faith. My co-workers--self proclaimed 'Angry Atheist,' pulled a frayed thread and I had to respond. I explained that the Robertsons of the world do not speak for every Christian. Nor does every Conservative, every Republican, and God above knows, every Right Wing Politician, Talk Radio Idiot or even, priests or pastors.
I hate religion. I hate what religion has done to people's faith. I hate that murders and wars and bigotry and ignorance is delivered in my God's name. I hate that heresy is an excuse for execution or that blind belief is used as justification for atrocities. Religion kills people's spirituality, it, in many regards, diminishes people's faith.
I believe that the God I serve and His son aren't ironic in their dictations nor are they concerned with exacting vengeance. Simply put, I believe Christ was meek, caring, loving, forgiving. I believe that God created us, gave us free will, so that we could see His grace, understand His hope in us. The God I worship does not hate, does not want his followers to do so either.
I have seen miraculous wonders. I have watched life form in my body, have seen the miracle of it all expand and grow, evolve and strengthen. I have seen the terminally ill, cured. I have felt the indescribable love and generosity of my Father shoot through my spirit, cradle my soul. I have experienced power and majesty that I could not possibly describe. I have felt God's presence, have witnessed His splendor despite my sometimes cynicism.
I'm educated. I understand the theory of scientific explanation. I appreciate the quest for knowledge and the 'proof' of all of us being some amazing accident. But no proof, no theory can ever weaken my faith. No hypothesis could change my mind, break my spirit.
We are not perfect. We falter in our walk, in our daily experiences. We made poor choices. We lie. We are envious. We are weak. We are human. Most importantly, we are forgiven.
So when you see something on the news, hear some maniac spewing out hate or giving their opinion on sin or violence or why God does this or that, please remember this 'religious leaders' do not speak for all of us. Some Christians do love unconditionally. Some of us do not judge. Some of us generally feel loss and happiness just like those who do not believe. The difference is we take solace in our Father. The difference is, we try our level best to honor our Father's design. Don't let the hate you hear decide for you. Don't let the corrupt who wave our flag settle your opinions.
Don't let the few, speak for the many.
I work with many people who believe in absolutely nothing. There is no God, according to those individuals. There is no 'fairies making the flowers bloom or the sun rise.' (Direct quote, that). Believing in nothing seems, for many I know, a necessity, a purposeful comfort that I can neither understand or, to be honest, give little thought to. The point is, these individuals do not believe. I, however, do. Thanks to others that claim my label, because I do count myself as a Christian (I can see you rolling your eyes...can hear your heavy sighs), I find myself, more frequently lately explaining my ideals ad nauseam.
Thanks to the Jim Bakers and God above Pat Robertsons of the world, many assume that because I have faith, because I do 'believe,' my mindset and ideology is equal to those yahoos that belittle, judge and openly condemn those who do not believe.
Robertson, last week when the earthquake happened in Haiti, found it necessary to say that Haiti was cursed. (Though playing devil's advocate I believe the quote was pulled out of some long ago given interview) His contention was that historical Haitians had made a pact with the devil to rid the island of the French. They would practice Voodoo and 'the devil' would get rid of the French. Of course, it happened, right? I don't need to explain Haitian political history, do I?
But, once again, I found myself defending my faith. My co-workers--self proclaimed 'Angry Atheist,' pulled a frayed thread and I had to respond. I explained that the Robertsons of the world do not speak for every Christian. Nor does every Conservative, every Republican, and God above knows, every Right Wing Politician, Talk Radio Idiot or even, priests or pastors.
I hate religion. I hate what religion has done to people's faith. I hate that murders and wars and bigotry and ignorance is delivered in my God's name. I hate that heresy is an excuse for execution or that blind belief is used as justification for atrocities. Religion kills people's spirituality, it, in many regards, diminishes people's faith.
I believe that the God I serve and His son aren't ironic in their dictations nor are they concerned with exacting vengeance. Simply put, I believe Christ was meek, caring, loving, forgiving. I believe that God created us, gave us free will, so that we could see His grace, understand His hope in us. The God I worship does not hate, does not want his followers to do so either.
I have seen miraculous wonders. I have watched life form in my body, have seen the miracle of it all expand and grow, evolve and strengthen. I have seen the terminally ill, cured. I have felt the indescribable love and generosity of my Father shoot through my spirit, cradle my soul. I have experienced power and majesty that I could not possibly describe. I have felt God's presence, have witnessed His splendor despite my sometimes cynicism.
I'm educated. I understand the theory of scientific explanation. I appreciate the quest for knowledge and the 'proof' of all of us being some amazing accident. But no proof, no theory can ever weaken my faith. No hypothesis could change my mind, break my spirit.
We are not perfect. We falter in our walk, in our daily experiences. We made poor choices. We lie. We are envious. We are weak. We are human. Most importantly, we are forgiven.
So when you see something on the news, hear some maniac spewing out hate or giving their opinion on sin or violence or why God does this or that, please remember this 'religious leaders' do not speak for all of us. Some Christians do love unconditionally. Some of us do not judge. Some of us generally feel loss and happiness just like those who do not believe. The difference is we take solace in our Father. The difference is, we try our level best to honor our Father's design. Don't let the hate you hear decide for you. Don't let the corrupt who wave our flag settle your opinions.
Don't let the few, speak for the many.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Where the Magic Lives
For the three of you who I have forced into sublimation (read: bully you into reading my infrequent blogs), I have an announcement. I will be paring down, significantly, on my Internet time, mostly those blogs and forums about the business of writing (and cyber stalking on Twitter). You see, I think I, like many other writers have a tendency to think ahead before we act, and no, not in the way you make think. I think a lot of us, particularly my fellow Pisces, tend to dream and wish without the very necessary 'doing' part of life.
We want, we desire, but we pull ourselves back from reality, from the work of being and doing what we want, in exchange for imagining and in some cases preparing for what will come after the hard work is done.
Take me for instance. Dreamer of dreams and a very lazy person at times. I follow agents and editors on Twitter to 'get to know' the business of writing when I should, instead, worry about the craft of writing. This has been my problem for several months now. I finished my novel last October and walked away, so focused on how I could sell it, how I could garner a modicum of attention, to have a few professional eyes pass across my pages. The problem was/is that there is a significant amount of editing that has to be done to that novel—I'm talking two, three and five drafts later, before I need to concern myself with all the rest.
Writing shouldn't be attempted for the end result. A story doesn't want to be told so its God Creator can be reviewed by PW or nominated for a Hugo. A story wants simply to just be heard and in the hearing, the story wants to be told well. I haven't done that lately. I haven't been true to those untold tales and random quips that bounce and dance in my head. I have suppressed their voices to the vanity of the craft, for the opportunity to move my career forward before I have properly prepared for it.
I think it's a mistake many of us make.
Writing isn't about the writer, not really. It's about the voices we hear (the non-clinically insane ones). It's about those characters that are vying for the writer's attention—those characters, those plots that simply want to be born onto the page. It is about not dreaming, but doing.
So, I'm going back to the beginning. I'm re-teaching what Dr. Gautreaux tried to drill in my head, what Bev tried to instill into my inattentive mind.
I'm going back to the story. I'm going back to the craft. That's where the magic lives.
We want, we desire, but we pull ourselves back from reality, from the work of being and doing what we want, in exchange for imagining and in some cases preparing for what will come after the hard work is done.
Take me for instance. Dreamer of dreams and a very lazy person at times. I follow agents and editors on Twitter to 'get to know' the business of writing when I should, instead, worry about the craft of writing. This has been my problem for several months now. I finished my novel last October and walked away, so focused on how I could sell it, how I could garner a modicum of attention, to have a few professional eyes pass across my pages. The problem was/is that there is a significant amount of editing that has to be done to that novel—I'm talking two, three and five drafts later, before I need to concern myself with all the rest.
Writing shouldn't be attempted for the end result. A story doesn't want to be told so its God Creator can be reviewed by PW or nominated for a Hugo. A story wants simply to just be heard and in the hearing, the story wants to be told well. I haven't done that lately. I haven't been true to those untold tales and random quips that bounce and dance in my head. I have suppressed their voices to the vanity of the craft, for the opportunity to move my career forward before I have properly prepared for it.
I think it's a mistake many of us make.
Writing isn't about the writer, not really. It's about the voices we hear (the non-clinically insane ones). It's about those characters that are vying for the writer's attention—those characters, those plots that simply want to be born onto the page. It is about not dreaming, but doing.
So, I'm going back to the beginning. I'm re-teaching what Dr. Gautreaux tried to drill in my head, what Bev tried to instill into my inattentive mind.
I'm going back to the story. I'm going back to the craft. That's where the magic lives.
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