Hooray!

I’m back writing a novel and I’m so happy.  I feel like I’ve come home.  I’m not a short story writer, which doesn’t mean I’ll never write one.  But I’m so much more comfortable writing in this form. 

Whether Or Not or Weather Or Not

I don’t seem to be doing too well.  I’m not able to stick to any schedule.  So in the morning it’s whether or not to write.  This is a question I never asked myself during years of writing novels.  I’ve tried to blame my vacillation on the weather, but I know that doesn’t make sense. 

Still, yesterday as the snow fell it was more a reading day to me than a writing day. I started off reading in bed, then moved to the living room and sat in a big comfy chair.  Although I could see the snow easily from my bedroom, the living room afforded me many more windows to watch through if I looked over my reading glasses.

But weather isn’t an excuse I would’ve taken if I had a contract for a novel.  Or maybe even if I was writing a novel without one.  I’m not sure this short story thing is for me.  I’ve always known that short story writing was an art unto itself.  And I always believed some people could and some couldn’t and I counted myself among the latter.

I’m used to the build of a novel, the many characters, the freedom .  A short story needs to be what it says: a story that’s short.  Concise.  It’s true that my novels have become lean in style, but there’s still a license that I don’t find in writing a short story.

I’ve written most of one story and the beginning of another.  I do like that I can go to any story I want on any given day.  Or start a new one without finishing another that I decide I’ll go back to.  Writing a novel I wouldn’t dream of starting a new chapter without finishing the last.

It worries me that if I start a novel my expectations will rise up and bite me.  I have an idea but it isn’t a burning idea.  It doesn’t keep me up at night or take my mind away from what I’m doing.  It’s just an idea.

I do believe I’d be more disciplined if I was writing a novel.  But so what? I see that I can start writing after nine in the morning.  That’s one thing that trying to write stories has given me.  I don’t have to be as inflexible as in the past.

So what if I started writing a novel and didn’t use my rigid schedule?  Would the novel writing police arrive?  Of course I’m the novel writing police.  What if I give writing a novel in a more relaxed fashion a chance? Although trying to write at least four days a week.  I think I’d be happier than attempting short stories and not getting to my desk more than two days a week at most.

There’s no one to stop me except me.  Still, I’ll have to stick to one rigidity.  I’d never start a novel on a Thursday.  I’ll think about this and then if that’s what I want to do I’ll start on Monday. 

I feel anxious simply thinking about it.  Maybe I have to let go of what day I start.  Maybe I have to let what happens happen.  Ohmigod!

Quote

"It's finding the emotional door you have to go through. You have to find a way, an angle in on the characters, so that your emotional dope, your limits, concerns, needs and hopes at that moment can be expressed through the vehicle of the made-up story. And then you have to shape the story as entertainment so other people can feel that same emotion."

Stephen King, on revising a novel

Writing and Acting

The nice thing about writing for yourself, no agent or editor nagging you, is that you can go at your own speed, stop and write something else (like the flash fiction for Feb.) or take off the day without guilt.

I was too tired the day after the Golden Globes (all those parties) and the Inauguration took up a whole day and the next day I was too tired (all those balls).

With one thing and another I haven’t written more of the story I posted about below.  But tomorrow I’m going to give it a try again.  In fact I’m actually looking forward to it.  I think now I’ll do stories about the same characters I’m introducing in this first story.  Only a thought.

The back page of the NYTBR has an essay today about book promotion.  It’s about making movie trailers or something jazzy and different about books for the Internet.  The thrust of this essay seems to be that if you don’t do that you might as well flush your book down the toilet.

And I thought book tours were nightmares.  I mean, part of wanting to be a writer for me was that I could be alone.  But now I’d have to make a movie and be with gaffers and grips.

I guess this is the wave of the future (the future is now) and nothing will stop it.  For some this may be fun and exciting.  For me the excitement is the act of putting my fingers on the keys and … I almost forgot … shutting the door.

Writing One, Thinking Of Another

Strange what’s happening.  Or maybe not so strange.  I started a short story last week and I noticed this week that my mind keeps making dips like: maybe this can become a novel.  Why couldn’t this be the YA that my agent is always trying to get me to write?  Or, I can write connecting stories and……….

The reason I say it may not be strange is because at heart I’m a novelist.  I thought that writing ss would free me.  It did at first…by that I mean the first six pages or so.  But as the story kept growing, taking side trips, one thing reminding me of another, the long fingers of the novel snagged me. And what’s really odd (for me) is that my family keeps creeping into this thing.

Writing ss I know there’s not a chance in hell that I’d sell one and that’s where the freedom comes in. But with a novel there’s always that hope in me even though I know it’s one of the worst periods in publishing.

I don’t want to think about writing a novel.  But I also want to keep writing. I’ll have to press on and let my mind do its tricks and try not to pay attention.  I don’t hold out much hope for that.

Annoying Things

Good news and bad news.  I wrote again today and got a good chunk done.  I don’t mean that the writing is good…just that I did it.

BUT…I hate Word 2007.  I even bought myself a book called The Missing Manual.  It never has what I need.

When I finished my last word I hit the return, clicked on the icon for middle of page and to show a passage of time I did this *** .  First it made strange lines and borders and I’ll never know how I got out of that, and then it screwed up my entire format.  Two lines on a page.  Last lines of paragraphs in the middle of a line.  It took me 45 min. to get a format back.  Not the one I had, but something like it.  Something sane looking.  I’m thinking of going back to Word 2003. This is not what you want to do after writing.

Still, I got the work done and didn’t lose it.

 

Just One of Those Things

Everyday can’t be a winner when you’re writing.  Today was not so hot for me.  After yesterday I felt fired up.  But a feeling isn’t a fact.

I stayed at my desk for three hours, but I got very little done. I was disappointed.  Still, I wasn’t depressed by my lack of success. 

I have tomorrow and I can hope for a better day.

Yes!

Over a thousand words.

Time 2

It’s Saturday.  Less than two days left before I start to write.  Part of me feels like this is the last weekend of my life.  Another part is looking forward to Monday.

What if I just sit here?

What if I stare at this screen and nothing happens?

I do have a title so that’s something.  But what if I can’t even write a first line?

In the past two years I’ve written those 200 pages that I ended up stuffing in a drawer; a short story for the anthology A Hell of a Woman and a flash fiction piece.  Not my usual output.  Not me at all. Not who I once was. 

Time has passed, I’ve grown older and I’m rusty.  I have a new Word program.  I’m not even sure I know how to use it properly.

But here’s the thing I have to remember:  I’m not writing for anyone but myself.  This is both good and bad.  It’s good because I can be on my own schedule, take my time, screw up.  Bad because I’m not writing for anyone.  Agent, editor, publisher.  They aren’t thinking about me.  This is a whole new world.

Will I be able to do this without the carrot?

WTF, I’m simply going to try.

Time

Is running out.  For me.  To not write.  Six more days before I try to start a story.  Back to a routine.  Going to bed early.  Hitting the keys by nine. 

Nervous?  Yes.

 

Commitment

I’ve been thinking about what I should write if I’m going to try again.  The news from the world of publishing is not helpful.

I think that at this point in my life the commitment of writing a novel is too great.  And I do think of it as a commitment. 

When I begin a novel it’s as if I’m beginning a new relationship.  I have to meet it everyday.  I have to spend three or four hours a day with it.  I have to give it love.

I have seldom said, I can’t see you anymore.  The relationship changes and grows.  If it takes a turn I don’t like I don’t give up.  I work on it until I’m satisfied.  And a great many months or years are devoted to this affair.  Most of all there’s an expected outcome for me.  My secret romance will be shared with others.  First reader, agent, editor, critics, public. That’s the way it goes.  Or went.  I have expectations. No matter how I try to deceive myself, ignore those expectations, they’re there.  I can’t help it.

So I’ve decided to try writing short stories.  I have absolutely no expectations.  Yes, I’ve sold a few, but it’s not the same as a lifetime of writing and publishing novels.  There’s practically no market for shorts so I can’t hoodwink myself.   

Writing a novel means publication and money for me.  Writing a short story means neither of those things.  Even though I need money, like everyone else, I feel no pressure.

And then there’s the idea that any story I write will be a fling.  The commitment is so much shorter than writing a novel.  Surely I can make one.  And if I want to try another commitment I can.  Or not.  A story will have been written with my fidelity in tact.

So come January 5th I’m going to try to get engaged.

Quote

"Writing is an occupation in which you have to keep proving your talent to those who have none."

Jules Renard

Free

All my outside obligations are over.  So now I have time to write.  Do I want to?  Maybe.

When I go to bed I tell myself that tomorrow I’ll start something.  And when I wake up I don’t do it.

Knowing that whatever I write probably won’t sell makes it hard.  I’ve never had to worry about that since I started publishing in the early seventies. 

I’m lucky, you say.  Yes, I know.  I was writing at a great period in publishing history.  Now it’s not so hot.  And I’m not on the wanted list.  I’m not at an age where some editor will feel he/she can mold my career.  So what to do?

Should I stay in the crime field?  Or should I write whatever comes into my head?  I have a better chance if I stay in my genre, but only a tiny one.

I don’t have a book in me that I’ve been dying to write for years and years.  I’ve already written that book. 

I can only hope that more will be revealed.

Quote

"Against the disease of writing one must take special precautions, for it is a dangerous and a contagious disease."

Peter Abelard

Attitudes

Today I bumped into someone I hadn’t seen for about a year.

She said to me, “Are you still writing?”

I’ve had this question put to me many times in my life.  I don’t think the question is asked of anyone but people in the arts.  Sometimes it even comes from people who are in the arts.  An actor once asked me this.

But the best one was an old editor of mine who I bumped into in an elevator.  The elevator was in a building where the publishing company was located.

“Are you still writing, Sandra?”

“No, Roger” I said.  “I’m a brain surgeon now.”

He didn’t blink because I don’t think he was listening to my answer.

Why do people ask this question?  I think if you’re a writer, painter, etc. people don’t take what you do seriously.  They don’t think it’s work.  They view it as if it was a hobby.  They can’t equate arranging words on a paper or putting paint on a canvas as work.  Especially writing, because everybody writes. And an awful lot of people think they can write more than a letter if only they had the time.

A man I know who had been sick said, “I wouldn’t have gotten through my illness if I hadn’t had mysteries to read.  Now that I’m better I’m going to write one to give back what I’ve gotten.”

I wanted to pop him one, but I didn’t.  Even I have restraint at times.  Afterall, he’d been sick.

Today when I was asked the question I said, “I’m taking a little break now.”  And I didn’t ask her if she was still practicing law.  

Quote

"The cat sat on the mat is not a story. The cat sat on the other cat's mat is a story."

John LeCarre

Reading

I may never read a book again.  Is it me or is it the books?  I know I’m having a terrible time focusing because of conditions I can’t control.  But that’s getting better.  I have less to do.  So why hasn’t my desire to read returned?

I can read newspapers, magazines, blogs, etc.  But not books.  I read fiction almost exclusively.  Occasionally a non-fiction book will peak my interest.  But nothing interests me now.

At the moment I have two new novels from the library.  I put them on a request list months ago.  I was anxious to read them because both are written by authors I like.  I’ve started both and stopped both.

Before that I read about 385 pages of a 400 page novel and stopped.  I had no idea what I’d read and, of course, didn’t give a damn about the ending.  This has never happened to me before.  I give a book about 25 pages and if it doesn’t grab me I don’t read it.  Sometimes I can tell in 10.  But 385?

I don’t actually think it’s the books.  It’s me. Reading is one of the great pleasures of my life and not being able to do that leaves me feeling empty.

This is great: I can’t write and I can’t read.  Daytime TV?  Not yet.

An Excuse I Don't Want

I’m home but I have certain responsiblilities that make it not only impossible to think about writing, but untenable to write.  It makes me sad.

I think I want the choice to be mine.  Not something that is imposed on me.  It will be six weeks before I can focus on myself and make some sort of stab at what I want to do.

There’s a flash fiction project going on and I can’t even do that although I’d like to.

From time to time I’ll try to write things here that pertain to writing even though it’s not my personal struggle.  This and that as they occur to me and I have a moment or two.  Maybe no one will read it but it’ll be good for me if I can do it.  I guess I don’t want to be out of this altogether.

 

Musing

I hope my regular readers don’t abandon me while I’m in this state.  I hope one day you’ll drop in and read that I’ve begun something.

Meanwhile, perhaps this tells you what can happen to a writer at my stage in a career.  The fact is I don’t have a career at this time.  I have lots of work behind me, but now … nothing.  And no publisher is waiting for me to turn in anything.

As this stage has gone on and on I realized I’ve been derailed by many things.  Not all of them my doing.  We all know that the state of publishing is a mess.  So this doesn’t make me want to knock myself out trying to get back on track.

I’m a writer and my natural state is to be writing.  Still, knowing that probably nothing will happen to anything I write is depressing.  This isn’t my imagination.  I have a track record and you’re only as good as your last book.  In other words, how much money you made for the publisher.

This is understandable.  Publishing is a business.  My career has not been a splashy one.  Pretty steady though.  Once I started publishing only one book of mine was rejected…never published.  So it’s hard to think of writing knowing it might end up in a drawer.  I’m not used to it.

Yes, I put 200 pages in a drawer a year ago, but that was by choice.  I’m talking about a finished manuscript.  Anyone who tells you they write for the sake of writing is either a liar or a fool.

If and when I start again, the knowledge that what I’m writing may never be published will always be with me.  During most of my career I wondered, never sure I’d sell a book, but this is different. 

I’m nearer to the end instead of the beginning. Or even the middle.  It’s harder here.

The New Year That Wasn't

I did say that I’d know by now and I do.  Things have turned out to thwart any new beginning at this time.

I’m not sure exactly how long I’ll be unable to consider writing.  It looks like six to eight weeks.  I’ll be away from home for about five days and with lack of concentration or focus no writing will occur except for email and this blog.  And I’m not sure how that works in a hotel.  The wireless thing, I mean.

I’d be foolish to think I could begin something during this period.  And when I get home I’ll be very busy doing other things.  So two months more or less before I consider writing again.

Yes, I’m relieved in a way, but I don’t admit to that.  I tell myself I would’ve come up with something good and I’d be back on track again.

It could’ve happened, I guess.  But this isn’t the end of the line.  It’s a postponement. At least that’s what I tell myself.