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.

Sunday morning at Mozingo and my lack of inspiration

Sunday morning at Mozingo Lake. I’m sitting on the couch swathed in blankets in front of the fire, recovering from my decision to turn the heater down for the night. The main room temperature was 57 degrees this morning; the bedroom, without its own heat, probably hit the low fifties. So I’m now pampered on the couch while Richard makes hot chocolate.

I’ve decided to do one more editing pass of Whose Hearts are Mountains, suspecting that I concentrated too much on the “was is where have had has” and not enough on other aspects that need smoothing out. And I have one more novel that needs editing after that.

I’m postponing writing another novel, and I know it.

Like I said, I have an idea for a new novel that I’ve been sitting on for a while. The name of the novel is (tentatively) God’s Seeds; I’ve talked about it in these pages. It might help me to do what I usually do when I write — pay attention to the relationships between characters. The themes come first, the plot I create in the outline, but in my books, the relationships between characters create the dialog and the unfolding of the story. The main relationship in this novel is between Baird Wilkens, a half-human Nephilim and Leah Inhofer, a young adult with a startling gift. The story is in the Archetype universe, taking place a year or so after the Apocalypse. (Note to readers — the Apocalypse doesn’t turn out like you think. Look up the origin of the word)

It’s just hard to write right now because of my failure to get something accepted. I’ve already fulfilled my goal of writing a novel several times over, so another novel isn’t a tantalizing new goal. I haven’t gotten published or even found an agent yet, and so that goal seems daunting enough that I’m becoming avoidant.

What do I need right now? A clear path — an idea of what to do next. Give up? (I don’t feel like I’d have closure if I did this.) Self-publish? (I’m still scared of landing into obscurity, and it wouldn’t feel like closure.) Keep plugging away? (Insanity is doing the same thing over and over with the same results). Pray? (I’ve been doing this. No answer, my friends. No answer.)

At this moment, I guess it doesn’t matter, because I’m parked in front of a warm fire in a pine-paneled cabin, Outside lies a snowy landscape and iced-over lake. All is fine.

I am not inspired

So, I’m done editing Whose Hearts are Mountains, and I’m still at Mozingo on my writing retreat. But I don’t feel like writing. What am I to do?

Here’s my problem — I don’t have any inspiration for a new book. I haven’t since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains (writing, not editing). This is part of the reason I’ve been editing the back catalog for eventual developmental edits.

I have an outline for another novel, but my brain feels like a brick right now. I wrote a sentence, a first sentence, and it dropped like lead, inert and boring. I don’t feel that energy of attraction to anything I’ve writing.

I think a good amount of this is how hard I’ve been trying to get an agent and how utterly fruitless my efforts have been. I’m discouraged, and it’s hard getting motivated to write when there’s a backlog of unread novels.

Wish me inspiration. Wish me luck. Wish me good spirits. Wish me love.

Writing retreat at Mozingo

I sit in my pajamas in front of a fireplace typing this. Think of this as a mini-retreat at a cabin with the winter outside and warmth within. In fact, it’s warm enough that I’m getting sleepy …

No, that will not do. I came here to write, or at least finish editing Whose Hearts are Mountains. I only have three chapters left; I can handle that. But first, a nap …

A half-hour later, I’m awake. The fire is now roaring, and I’m ready to start writing again.

But first, I have to watch the video my friend in Poland (who probably doesn’t read my blog) just dropped …

I need to stop procrastinating. This IS my writing retreat.

On to editing …

Poem and Origin

You break me in this place

Of aborted dreams, this ice

Wrapped around age seventeen,

My missing innocence,

The fear, the blinding fear

That I should love you with this sullied heart.

You remind me of what I haven’t known —

Beam of light in the dark,

Holding pure secrets,

Embracing my dichotomy

And fear, this blinding fear

That I should love you with my sullied heart.

When you realize that crushes, the crushes that started at an entirely too-young age, that persisted through your marriage to a very patient husband, are all ways of trying to break through the dichotomy that permeated your childhood:

I am innocent/I have been used sexually.

Now, as an adult in my fifties, that pattern of seeking someone’s attention as a mystical cure for a secret affliction continues. I learn more and more every time, and I hope to reach an escape velocity from it soon.

The world assumes that those who have been sexually abused as children have somehow invited it upon themselves, that they have somehow lacked the innocence that would have stopped an abuser otherwise. The child accepts this judgment and judges themselves as someone worthy of hurt, and if the child is female, the purity culture surrounding them proclaims them soiled.

I blocked my memories throughout my childhood, only remembering them in adulthood. So I felt sullied but didn’t know why, and when I hit adolescence, I needed that proof that I was still loveable. And all those other things I felt I was lacking — beauty, personality — got rolled up with the damage from my abuse.

Writing Reteat this Weekend

Wish me luck — I’m going on a writing (ok, editing) retreat at Mozingo Lake this weekend. It probably won’t snow much here this weekend. That’s where I need the luck.

Mozingo Lake is the park some seven miles from us, owned by the city, with RV and cabin camping and a big fishing lake. We’ve secured one of the cabins for the weekend because I needed to get away to some place with a fireplace, a view out the window, and a minimum of distractions (and wi-fi, so we’re not completely roughing it.) The cabins possess a rustic living room area opening to a less rustic-looking kitchen with modern appliances, with a bedroom and sleeping loft. Oh yes, and indoor plumbing.

We’re supposed to get no more than 1-2 inches of snow Saturday night, and I expect that to hold. We’re going to bail if the forecast changes by Saturday afternoon. The key here is “if the forecast changes”, because sometimes we get more snow than was forecast. With a bit more snow, the roads at Mozingo will be an impassible winter wonderland until they plow. Here’s hoping we get the whole weekend there, and here’s hoping we don’t get snowed in — then again, if we bring extra food, getting snowed in could be fun …

The Grass is Not Greener in my Yard

I want to get rid of all the grass in the front yard. Richard, my husband, does not agree with me.

My husband, Richard

I don’t see the upside of grass lawns. Unless you are a ruminant (a cud-chewing animal), you can’t eat grass. It smells pleasant, but its scent is fleeting. Today’s lawn craze requires a monoculture of this pretty useless plant without the inclusion of co-planting in the form of white clovers that would supply nitrogen for the lawn. An attractive grass lawn demands babying — fertilizer, weed killer, mowing, reseeding.

I read somewhere that the desire for a green grass lawn is a throwback to early humans feeling more comfortable if there were no trees in their domain for predators to hide behind. I don’t buy this because landscaping incorporates plenty of bushes and trees for predators to hide behind. I myself think that the fanaticism for perfect green lawns, now with their perfect cross-hatching mowing patterns, has to do with what preeminent Victorian economist Thorstein Veblen called conspicuous consumption.

Conspicuous consumption refers to spending money in a way that shows that one has money. Perfect lawns are a perfect example of this — they require a lot of monetary outlay and a lot of time investment. It helps to be able to hire a groundskeeper to get that verdant sheen without any dandelions marring the perfection.

I could live without a typical grass lawn with all its high-maintenance needs. When the dandelions pop in our yard, I don’t think of digging them up unless I want to roast their roots for Beau Monde style coffee (aka chicory coffee, as dandelions are a close relative). I fantasize about a lawn full of clover with its little white blossoms or edible lawn daisies, or a slope of camomile and pavers surrounded with scented thymes. Or maybe just expanding my edible landscaping until there’s no lawn.

For which I’d have to hire a landscaper and participate in my own form of conspicuous consumption.

Author Mills and the Vulnerable

Last night I learned about author mills.

Author mills, sometimes known as vanity presses, are publishers that publish small runs of books for many, many authors. What do they look like? (Wikipedia, 2019)

They go for quantity rather than quality of authors; they may have thousands of authors passing in and out of their presses.
Almost no editorial gatekeeping (i.e. editing and other quality measures)
They only publish small runs of high-cost copies
They expect you to buy your own copies to sell
Once you publish with them, they own your book and the rights to it.

The relationship, in other words, is non-reciprocal, and the author has paid, essentially, for services traditional publishers would supply themselves.
After getting all the rejections I’ve received, I’m scared that I’m vulnerable to such an approach. “Wow, someone wants to publish me!” is a powerful lure after a long, difficult, dry spell. And this is what the author mill counts on — the starstruck desire to see one’s name in print on a book cover.

Falling for an author mill because one hasn’t found an agent/publisher yet is like getting into a relationship with a narcissist because one has had a dry spell in dating. Both look like they fulfill dreams, yet drain the dreamer dry with nothing in return.

The ways to guard against this?

Value yourself and your writing
Know the signs of an author mill
Research before you commit.

A great source with more information on author mills can be found here.

References

Strauss, V. (2010). The perils of author mills. Available: http://www.victoriastrauss.com/advice/author-mills/ [Feb. 20, 2019].

Wikipedia (2019). Author mills. Available: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Author_mill [Feb. 20, 2019].

The Peaceable Kingdom

In my Archetype/Barn Swallows’ Dance stories, I write about the Peaceable Kingdom.

The Peaceable Kingdom originates with a passage in Isaiah 11:6-8, where the author writes about the animals, predator and prey, sitting peacefully together: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and the young lion and fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.”

Edward Hicks, a Quaker painter, painted a series of paintings known as The Peaceable Kingdom in a somewhat primitive way, incorporating William Penn’s treaty with some Native American tribes in some of the paintings.

The Peaceable Kingdom is obviously a metaphor, because we can’t expect the lion to literally lie down with the lamb (as popular renditions of the Isaiah passage conflate), except perhaps in children’s play. Perhaps that’s why the passage evokes its sense of peace with such strength.

Barn Swallows’ Dance, my fictitious ecocollective in central Illinois, is my Peaceable Kingdom, or at least a noble experiment in such. Based on principles of right living, stewardship to the land, and pacifism, the collective has collected a variety of people who, like the wolf and the lamb, would not be expected to dwell together.

Imagine two National Guardsmen coexisting with a legendary draft resister. Or a real estate agent dwelling with an anarchist. A gay conservative rural Southerner living with himself. Barn Swallows’ Dance brings disparate sorts together to muddle their way through to the Peaceable Kingdom.

Because the Peaceable Kingdom is an ideal, the members of Barn Swallows’ Dance never quite make it there. They face conflict, they bicker, sometimes they fight. On rare occasions, someone commits evil out of their xenophobia. But the collective has pledged to create the Peaceable Kingdom, and they never quit trying.