Self-examination and the Author

Yesterday, I asked my Facebook friends how to tell the difference between low self-esteem and brutal self-examination.

One of my friends responded with this inquiry: “Always ask yourself if you are being your own best friend. If you were talking to a friend would you talk that way? If not, that voice doesn’t pay rent for space in your head. Kick her out!”

I thought about this — How do I talk to myself?

I spend a lot of time examining my behavior, a running commentary in my head. But I don’t indulge in negative self-talk. I don’t say “OMG, I can’t believe you put that in your query letter! You’re an idiot!” I say, “That went well, but you could have done better with this other thing.” Which I could have.

Would I talk to a friend like that? If they asked. Maybe I would emphasize the positive a bit more, which I don’t do for myself. To be honest, I need to point out more of the positives to myself.

Another friend of mine, a psychologist, pointed out that self-awaqreness correlates with accomplishment but self-esteem doesn’t. This is from research; I haven’t found the study yet to give the citation. It makes sense, though — self-awareness helps people to improve and it also gives them a connection to what they want to accomplish. Self-esteem, on the other hand, may help people feel good about themselves but lies separate from introspection. Self-esteem without self-awareness can become fatuous, a feel good mantra without substance. And self-awareness comes from self-examination.

When I write and I get rejections (which is all I’ve gotten so far), I go through what I’ve done to see where I could improve. This requires me to step back from the story I fell in love with when I wrote it. I think about the publication market versus my topics and ask myself whether I want to write specifically for the market (I want to write and see where the fantasy novel market and I intersect). I improve where I can, honing my skills at editing and using help like developmental editors.

Brutal self-examination isn’t fun. It’s a familiar commentary of “Have you tried this?” and “Next time do that” and “This would have worked better here”. I have to admit I don’t celebrate my successes enough, and I would have to tone down the post-mortem questions if I were talking to a friend. I need to take more time for “You did this well” and “You’re doing the right things” and “Good job!”

Another thing to examine myself about.

Hope Springs Eternal or, Sisyphus Was an Optimist

Hope springs eternal.

I sent a query off to DAW Books, one of those other Big 5 publisher imprints that don’t require an agent. If my history with Prodigies is any indication, I should hear nothing from them in 6-8 weeks (they don’t send rejections if I understand correctly) and be done with it.

Why do I do it, even though my chances of being chosen for publication are small?

Because if I don’t do it, I’ll never know.

Because I’m the sort of person who tries, even if I fail.

Because I like to make things happen.

Because I’m an eternal optimist.

Because I think my writing deserves to be read.

Because I don’t want to be the one that gave up too soon on a dream.

Fantasies, Aspirations, and Goals

The average self-publisher sells about 250 copies of their work.

Hearing this statistic floored me. I have no doubt that it’s accurate. It’s just that — that’s not a lot of copies. I thought I was being conservative when I set a goal of 400 copies if I self-published.

I thought I was being realistic when I ruled out thousands upon thousands of copies and the New York Times bestselling list. It turns out that my scaled back fantasies — even the 400 copies if I self-published — are too unrealistic. Without realistic grounding, our aspirations are set by our fantasies, and our aspirations in turn set our goals.

It’s time for me to figure out how to pare back my goals, fueled by fantasy. My fantasy was that I would have an agent and would find a publisher of size (say, one of the Big 5) and go on a book tour where someone else made the arrangements for me and I didn’t have to buy my own copies to sign and sell.

In a way, this is freeing. This makes me realize that having 20 readers of my blog is perhaps normal, and that the agents who reject me need to so they don’t starve, given the odds of someone picking up a book and reading it.

It also means that I will never get external validation of my work if I gauge success by my fantasies. How many readers is “enough” if the average self-published book gets 250 reads? What does a rejection mean if the object is not quality but saleability?

My goals will stay the same:

Get picked up by an agent or publisher, avoiding vanity presses and publishing mills

If the above doesn’t work, research and develop an effective self-publishing strategy, avoiding self-publishing scams

What changes are the standards for success. I’m still working on scaling down my expectations. This will be difficult.

Writing Superstitions part 2

I’ve written 1200 words so far on Gods’ Seeds* as I tackle the time-honored question, “What is the best way to begin this book?” Beginnings are important, so rather than just letting the writing flow (as I do with the rest of the book), I work harder to make the beginning shine right off.

I think it’s a superstition with me that I need a strong beginning but can just let words flow for the rest of the book and edit later. I do have my superstitions around writing, though. Nothing so obvious as a lucky shirt or favorite chair.

I plan to write in this blog every day, even if I write a fluff piece about coffee or cats** , because I believe that if I give this up, I will give writing up. So I write this blog in the morning, usually 5:30 AM Central US time, almost every day, even through depressive episodes, because I believe that if I give it up, I will give up being a writer.

Do I have other writing superstitions? As I use a computer for composition, no favorite pen, no favorite shirt, no favorite place in the house (today I’m writing in bed, propped up, with my Surface propped up on a lap desk because it’s Sunday morning and I can afford to be lazy today). Nope, just the one where I stick the beginning of the novel.

Maybe I need more superstitions — where I can’t write without coffee, or I pet my cat 14 times before I write or I have to wear my thinking cap*** or … naaah, I’ll stick to the superstition I have. It doesn’t limit me much.

* I will change the name of this. See yesterday’s blog as to why I haven’t yet.
** Or coffee and cats.
*** I typed this “thinking cat”.

Writing Titles or, Why I Called my Dissertation ‘Fred’!

Wrote the first 700 words of Gods’ Seeds yesterday. I’m thinking of a new name for it, given that I’m cutting the plot line that necessitates that title.

Writing titles is my second least favorite thing about writing, with getting rejections in first place. Why? Because titles are challenging. You have to capture the essence of the novel in four words or fewer while capturing the reader’s eye and imagination.

In addition, titles go through fashions and fads. An earlier convention in titling required a short comment to edify the reader on the contents concealed by the catchy title. The most familiar example of this is the 1851 classic Moby Dick or, The Whale. Did you know about the rest of this title before I mentioned it? Did you notice the oddly placed comma? Let me try this: Voyageurs or, The Time Traveling Assassin. No, sounds like Jules Verne. I rather like Jules Verne, and a comparison to him would be flattering, but…

Meanwhile, in the late Seventies/early Eighties, Marion Zimmer Bradley named two novels Stormqueen! and Hawkmistress! Yes, the exclamation points are part of the titles. It makes me wonder if I should have named that one novel Apocalypse! No, maybe not.

In the late Eighties, at least in academic circles, the joke was that one’s article would be more likely to be published if it had a colon. Let me see: Reclaiming the Balance: A Study of Race Relations in a Pacifistic Ecocollective. Um, no.

So I’m left on my own when coming up with a title, unless a publisher looks at my writing seriously and asks, “Have you considered putting a colon in?” Then I’ll have to give in.

An Epiphany on a Long Drive

Yesterday, I drove past fields of white against a cold blue sky, scattered with wind turbines like ice giants. My playlist, a random mix dominated by the local bands I have known and loved over the years, lulled me into a sense of introspection.

When I was younger, I declared that local music was the salvation of the universe — said in a dry, understated tone for comic effect, of course. Nonetheless, I believed it. The bands I loved ranged from introspective roots rock to bagpipe jazz to Celtic rock fusion, and I loved their energy, their bravado, their desire to create a sound that wasn’t like every other band out there. At the same time I wanted them to become big enough so that other people could enjoy them, I feared what the corporate music machine would do to them.

I hit an epiphany somewhere north of Creston, IA, in the icy white afternoon through which I drove:

Why did I see self-publishing as different from what my friends in local bands went through?

Why did I see big contracts as something that would kill my friends’ spirit and creativity, but I didn’t see the parallels in my own life?

I don’t know how ready I am for self-publishing, but I am beginning to see it in a different way.

Decision Point

I’m at a decision point:

Do I edit Reclaiming the Balance, or do I start writing?

I think I’ve stated this before, but I haven’t written anything new since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains back in November/December.

It’s time to write. It’s time to get reacquainted with the story line and with my main characters, Leah and Baird. I’m taking some retreat time this weekend to see what I can get going as a start.

I’m a writer again!

Spring in my Heart

Almost March, and the snow still lies in dirtied drifts on the ground, piled person-high at the edges of parking lots. The wind chills are more often than not in the single digits. Usually, by now, the snow pack has gone and the days fool one into thinking Spring has come early. My peas are supposed to be planted on St. Patrick’s Day, and I don’t know if the snow will be gone by then, much less the soil warm enough.

In short, I am sick of winter.

I want something new. Like many Americans, I think I want a new pretty thing. I replaced my iPhone 6 Plus after three or four years with a refurbished iPhone 8 Plus, and I’m already accustomed to its shiny new look. That’s the problem with new things — we step on the hedonic treadmill, buy shiny new things, and feel happy until that happiness, hedonic happiness, quickly fades.

I want a new thing for my soul. I want to plant peas on St. Patrick’s Day and watch them grow. I want to see my books progress toward being printed. I want to find a new challenge that absorbs me.

If I can’t have Spring outside, I would like Spring in my heart.

Editing into the Future

On my second editing pass through Whose Hearts are Mountains, I realize the story reads better than I thought.

My first edit is for word use, and I mostly eliminate as many of the passive verbs — have, had, has, was, were — with some fixing of awkward sentences as I see them. This gives me at best a choppy feel for the story.

My second edit is a reading edit, where I read to hear the sentences in my head and make sense of them. The book sounds good in my head.

Whose Hearts are Mountains isn’t even the next book I’m sending to developmental edit. I’ll send Apocalypse, which is the merciless edited version of three novels, first. But I have good feelings about Whose Hearts are Mountains that I didn’t expect I would have.

I still have to start writing a new novel soon. The only novel I have left to edit is Reclaiming the Balance, and that one has some necessary stylistic divergence (use of gender neutral pronouns for an intersex character) that I’m afraid will get in the way of its success.

I’m still wondering what I will write next. I have a few leads but do not feel passionate about any of them, mostly because they’re sequels to things already written but not yet accepted. Perhaps I’m looking for a new idea.

The gaping maw of self-doubt

While editing, I realized Whose Hearts are Mountains really isn’t a bad book. In fact, it’s pretty good. I could look at it tomorrow and believe the opposite.

I may be the worst critic of my own books. As well, I may be too enamored of them. On bad mood days, I focus on the errors and despair. On good days, I think my work lyrical and moving. On most days, I wonder how I can get myself published and wonder if anyone will read me.

Apparently, self-doubt is a constant companion of good writers, no matter where they are in their career, even if they have published books, even if they’ve made the bestseller list. So if I get published, I’ll still have the doubt.

I’ve sensed this all along. Insecurity is a gaping maw in the pit of one’s stomach, which requires more and more proof to feed it, and it’s never satisfied.

My self-doubt doesn’t need more food. It needs to be accepted as a part of me that will always be hungry.