Subdued Intrinsic

I am not dying. I just feel like I am. 'Cause I have the flu. the yucky kind with body aches. So I'm blogging, because I don't have enough sense not to, in my current loose state of mind.

This morning I got to thinking about the new strides in social media (don't freak; I'm a dork, not a geek, so the technobabble is beyond me, too, but I still squee over new gadgets--I think it's a nice balance) , and how things like Twitter--at an artist's or author's discretion--open a door into the entertainer's life.

That's weird. Not like bad weird or good weird, just plain weird. My best friend would probably get what I mean immediately . . . at least after I'd fed her a dose of Robitussin. We're tight like that. Even cold medicine brings closer our cognitive processes.  Anyway, by weird I mean artists are not precisely known for letting their creative times, in which they write, or compose, or create, all hang out there. As a sub-species, we're hermit-like. You see the work, but usually only after it's only all worked out.

With Twitter, blogging, live chats, we're giving up that reclusive way of life. That makes me curious. Because don't they say it's a bad thing to get to know your heroes or role models too well (presumably, because we're all human, which is, for some inexplicable reason, always a surprise to fans)? With all this technology, yeah, we're closer to our audiences, but what if Real Life us doesn't measure up to our Cover Life selves? Do we let down fans? Or do we make fans feel special, included, hopeful (especially fans aspiring to follow something along in our footsteps)?

Don't mistake me, I'm not trying to sway anyone one way or another. I love tweeting, and I like blogging (although I do it less because I feel to blog fluff somehow a betrayal of my readership and right now I'm a broken record ab out being stuck in a rut). I just have to think about that question.

I've read books I loved but then seen some unlikable behavior by the author and liked the book less for it. Same is true of music, just as is the opposite--thinking something was "meh" only to admire the artist for some good behavior, and seeing his or her work in a more positive light.

How much of a responsibility to remain mysterious to, or to be a revelation to our audiences do we have? If we produce fiction, or an alternate view of looking at or illumination something, is it up to us to shroud ourselves in an accompanying source of mystery? Are we at fault for bursting bubbles if we don't?

Okay, you've done it. You're in that final stretch of your manuscript, the last big blow-out, and then it's epilogue, sweet epilogue, and Fine. . . Except, you have no idea what you're doing in those last twenty or so pages. You know it's supposed to be big, tying up loose ends you've left (whilst simultaneously cutting free a few strings to leave the reader with more questions, should your book be in a series), and you know it has to feel genuine.

What do you do? Well, you fall back on your classic writer's block cures: repetitive exercises (either actual exercise, or you know, just the same action over and over), mundane chores which allow your mind to wander (I like washing the dishes--even though I actually hate washing the dishes), listen to music that gets you in the literary mood. I have a friend who likes to knit, one who cooks, one who just needs someone to babble to, and one who swears the bathroom in the most creativity-inspiring room in the house.

But I, on the other hand, know how my show goes down, and yet, still I have this magnetic force pulling me from completing this book. I feel like I'm letting down my friends, family, and writer cohorts with my uncertainly, and my sluggish pace. My inner demons taunt me with accusations of being lazy, or incapable, or both. Am I scared to finish because I'm sure my best efforts still won't be enough, or am I truly so busy in my "normal" life to have enough left over to do justice to this hot mess? Am I simply so much a perfectionist I'll never finish because I can't be certain of acclaim or praise? I'd hate it if that were the truth, because I don't want to be that shallow. I want to write for the good and the good times of others. I don't want to lose my faith in this book, my ability to write it, or a reader's likelihood to get something out of it.

A part of me, a very ingrained, much-disliked part of me, wants to put the blame on anyone, anything else. I don't have test readers, so I don't have any feedback to work from. Or, I don't work nearly as well unless I've got a hard-copy in front of me, but I don't want to waste paper, so I have to finish this thing before I print it all out. Or, Oh, look, there are REALLY pretty boys on television right now. I can't write with pretty boys in front of me *minor eye rape*. Even, My husband is actually home today, I don't want to do anything but curl up on the couch with him. Which, you know, is TRUE, but is also procrastinatorial BS (yes, me and the words-making again).

So, you tell me; what do I do?

Personal Notes: It's a little weird, but I know my best friend's favorite word*, but not her favorite color. If I had to hazard a guess I'd say . . . blue?

* "Sussurous", which refers to a quiet, rustling sound, like leaves being blown by a breeze, or many people whispering at once.

 . . . which can be saddening, 'cause you know, I can't use every giggle-worthy thing I come up with, either because they're a little off-color (hi, I'm a grown-up; nice to meet you), or there just really is no play for the remark/comment/scene.  So, that in mind, a few things rattling around in my brain that may or may not make the cut some day.

"Your fault?  Of course it's your fault. It's always your fault. There's a whole museum of things that are your fault. They're adding a Hall of Fault Fame. It's dedicated to the victims of your stupidity."

"It's okay. Every one knows your testicles are pretty much ornamental, anyway. You might as well bronze them and display them on the mantle for all the good they do you."

"Damn, girl! That was something else."
"Yeah, I know. I've sort of been doing it as a hobby for while, but I'm hoping to go for a full Bad-assary PhD in a couple years."

"I rent an apartment in what could arguably be described as Hell and you what--want to see me safely inside?"

Personal Note: A hard-core (possibly old lady-ish) pet peeve of mine is people breaking before they put on they're turn signal.  Seriously, how hard is it to tell yourself to flick on your signal a couple seconds before you put your foot on the break. I don't care what your DMV pamphlet says; the turn signal isn't so much about which way you're going as it is to tell the people behind you, "Hey, I'm going to slow down a lot here in a second, and I'm letting you know ahead of time because neither of us wants your hood shoved into my trunk."

I haven't a had a bowl, yet. I'm kind of starving. But it's okay, because I know where I keep the breakfast food.

The Holidays are a questionable time to start major revisions. "Go ahead and put them aside until all the triptophan and Santa cookies are out of your system," you suggest, and normally I'd agree with you. Hades, it might even be good from a "process" stand-point, give me that edge of a little more objectivity when I tackle it. But the this is, there's a ton of stuff to change, and even though I've written quite a bit of it down, shared with other people, using them as human flash drives, and even organized a rough timeline/changes synopsis. And yet, I'm still worried I'll forget it all. I'll forget the "why?" of a lot of it, as in why someone does what they do, or why something unfolds the way it does. If you didn't gather yet, the "why" of things is second only to well-developed characters to me. So, it's important.

*sigh*

When I buckle in (I do have a family to take care of/hang out with), it seems to be working out, though, so there's goodness in that. And I'm okay knowing it will take at least two, possibly three drafts, like writing a whole new book (my ego smarts at that a little, but the rest of me has sucked it up).

Okay, I need my coffee and other sustenence. We can't all be only Maxwell House's slave.

I'm not sure I could ever be perky as either Lorelai or Rory Gilmore, even though I adore them to bits. I realize this morning (as I was waking up, so possibly fear) I'm more of a Lane Kim. I am totally cool with that.

As a little girl I was truly, madly, deeply in love with sugar. I even remember one occasion when three of my cousins and I stayed up till after all the adults had crashed, then all four of us snuck down to the kitchen and had ourselves a brown sugar extravaganza. I was probably around six or seven. Just imagine it, dozens of miniature Barbie teacups and containers, carefully packed with a very tanned version of sugarcane, and spirited away to be consumed amongst shushed giggles.

I also didn't consider something "dessert" unless it had 80 percent of its calories from something over-refined and under-recommended. People tried to tell me fruit and nuts were sweet, but I was pretty sure those people were herbally influenced, and therefore didn't know what they were talking about.

It's still true as an official grown-up I'm the the junk food junkie/sugar-toothed one between my husband and myself. It's one of the ways I know I'm actually thirty, not 20, like the mirror might have me believe. But, I've learned the subtlety of sweetness. I can put one of the hard-won pecans* from the tree in our back yard and distinguish all the flavors, including sweet, as my tongue runs through them.

I have also learned (though in no way mastered) the sweetness of subtlety. See what I did there, with the word swapping? I'm realizing presentation is at least half of what makes a good story worth hearing. It's not enough just to take all your nifty facts and figures out there, with a neon sign blinking, "This is a PLOT POINT! Revel in the genius/tragedy/sneakiness of it!" It's not enough to know your story, or novel, or whatever. You have to know it well enough to know just how to tell it. Or sell it, as the case may be.

It's a fine line, one I need a lot more practice at. My writing is a lot like my cooking, I think; anybody'll tell you the food I put in front of them is usually pretty nom-worthy (I have a tendency to ignore or eye ball measurements, so sometimes my experiments fail, another way my writing and cooking are alike), but there's been some Devine intervention involved if the food doesn't look like something that came out the waste end of a nuclear reactor. Hey, I'm keeping it real here, people.

So, kiddos, question for today: Where do you consider the line between subtlety and confusion to lie (lay? Hey, Authoress, gimme a hand here)?

*If you need some pecans for a pie or something, come on over. Our tree went insane this year and they're really good.

Personal Note: I totally include myself in this post and for the record, my fingernails are an awesome prismatic silver color (see http://twitpic.com/6wucw ), Pandora just spit out one of my favorite songs from the 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack, "I Want You To Want Me", by Letters to Cleo, and here's proof I'm not just mean to you guys: http://twitpic.com/6wu7j

So, for a while I very actively, slavishly participated in a website called Authonomy. You've probably heard of it. It had a lot of press in writerly circles. Anyway, so there I was, soaking everything up like a sponge and rather caught in the idea of getting my work in front of Harper-Collins' editorial staff's eyeballs (and for my part I have to say they've done just as they promised and they PR-ed it like no tomorrow) so I raced along, trying to charm, bribe, shock, WHATEVER my way to a higher ranking (every 30 days the top five ranked books get reviewed by HC) just like everyone else.

And then I got sick of it. Sick of playing nice and pretending not to be myself so I didn't step on toes. And I quit playing. This doesn't make me any better than the people who still 'Authonomize', than those who are making the mad dash for the 'Editor's Desk', but it's just not me.

I recently started popping in here and there to make contact with a few of the people* whose opinion I regard highly, asking if they'd be willing to search out weak places in Silver for me. In the process I had to wade a bit through the forums and comments and I actually felt dirty when I came back out. It was like walking down the seediest part of Vegas (I assume, as I've never been), only if Vegas were run by vulgar preschoolers. People prostituting themselves like crazy, people throwing huge hissy fits when they didn't get the critique they wanted, people slandering others, just really the worst of human traits splashed all over the place like a pride banner (being proud of your culture, your gender, your sexuality, your beliefs, that one thing, but to glorify the darkest, least redemptive aspects of your species? C'mon!)

And that brings us to the blog title today, a least the first part. XXXL.

What must writers truly think of themselves, how do we aggrandize ourselves to think this behaviour is acceptable? We bust have some ENORMOUS heads, seriously, to fit in all that ego. We come off sounding as if we're untouchable, our work beyond judgement, the standard to which all others should be held. What is WRONG with us?

I even fell into that pit a little this morning when I got in a line-critique from a writer friend who deals in a seriously different genre than I do. I got my back up because she kept pointing out places where I used an action as a dialogue tag (such as "Hi," he smiled.) and then, thankfully, I grew the Hades back up and felt grateful to her for pointing it out. I'm still not sure I agree with it (grammar rules aside--I know, *gasp!*) yet, but dagnabbit, that woman spent some of her well-earned three-day weekend to help ME improve MY brainchild and I am going to darn well be thankful for it. And I am.

Just remember guys, there is ALWAYS room for improvement. Always. Being 'a writer' doesn't excuse anyone for needing their share of modesty, and it doesn't make one infallible. If you've seen the early drafts of Silver and have recently seen where a year of learning and re-writing, and basically kicking my own butt all over the place because this is it for me, this is IT, you see what a heartbreaking/dream-making effort it all is.

If you love it, if it's part of you, if writing is IT for you, somewhere in your spirit you'll just know when it's time to put yourself aside and let someone else have a go, and while it certainly may hurt, you'll still appreciate it, because the pain is worth it. The pain is worth swallowing your protests, setting your "But, but, but!" aside and letting all the work.

Let someone else wash the muck off you. What's left will be truth, and as you know, it always wills out.


*I feel like I should insert here I DID make several very good, talented, helpful friends there who were very involved in my learning about the art of writing (you can often find one or two commenting here, in fact). Again, I stress Authonomy isn't all bad, just the parts that are bad are bad enough keep me mostly away. I do keep a copy of Silver there for safety's sake (so I have a digi copy out in the world; my computer has crashed on me once already) and because, yes, every once in a while someone finds it among the piles of slush and has something to say about it. I just don't promote it.