Within and Outside a Literary Universe

I’ve been having a fruitful period of revising old works in the Archetype universe. I’m almost done with the Problem Child #2 (I can finish today and give it a good second pass) and have edited the short stories that go with the world.

Almost every novel I’ve written so far has been in that universe, one indirectly. (A total of five novels.) It’s a fascinating universe, with a group of immortals known as Archetypes, tethered to the human world by their responsibility of holding humans’ racial memories so humans are less consumed by their pasts. A few of the immortals get involved with humans as their protectors; others rage against the humans and plot genocide. Most Archetypes live outside of relationships; a few stumble their way through relationships. The Archetypes are super-fertile, and must abstain from sex, but rarely they make the decision to bring other Archetypes and the half-human Nephilim into the world, for good or evil purposes.

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Within this universe, I have fit a number of genres and storylines: fantasy, romantic fantasy, and fantasy romance; Dude with a Problem, Golden Fleece; Buddy Love, Rites of Passage, Superhero.

I like writing within the universe because its characters and settings are so interesting to me. But I need a change, and I need it by Camp NaNo.

Seeking clearness

I want to hear your thoughts. I’m thinking about where to go with my writing.

I have come to the point where I need to think seriously about whether to continue writing and whether to continue my quest to be published, which are related but seperate things. 

Thoughts:

1) One doesn’t write novels “for oneself”. The rough draft of a novel is about 80,000 to 100,000 words. I write about 1000 words in an hour when I’m in the groove; much fewer when I’m not. This doesn’t count the number of hours editing and re-editing, which I would estimate at least another 60 hours. 

2) If I could share with people for free, I might be inclined to keep writing. I have trouble getting my friends (that’s you!) to beta-read or read for the heck of it. The time I tried serializing on WattPad or that other platform way back when, nobody read. People don’t read much anymore, I’m told. 

3) It’s easy to say “If I get an agent/get published/get readers then that’s a sign from God that I’m supposed to keep writing.” What if I don’t get these? Is it a sign that I’m not supposed to work toward getting published anymore?

4) I will be working with a publishing coach, probably to pursue the self-publishing route. But the recommendations are likely to be “find some friends to read it, and have them write reviews”. This bothers me because a) it seems like gaming the system and b) #2 above.

5) Without people to share my stories with, I’m losing the thrill. I want you to know my characters. They’re like family to me — the immortal lawyer Luke and his Denisovan consort Su, the dark Grzegorz, the droll Weissrogue, edgy Kat, and others. 

I need your thoughts and your help.

Why Novels?

Even though I still ponder whether the world needs my novel, I am still prepping for NaNo, which starts this Saturday. My goal is to finish Prodigies at a clip of 1000 words per day, or 30,000 words for the month-long session. That’s a lot of words, yet I’ve written 50,000 words or more during regular NaNo season.

I used to write at a much more relaxed pace, a short story here, a poem there, and occasionally a chunk of song lyrics. I mostly used to write about my feelings without much artistry (although in my defense, without too much cliché.) On rare occasions, I would show someone and they’d say “That’s really nice.”

I wanted to know how good I was and how good I could be. I read others’ poetry, and felt I didn’t quite have what contemporarily published poets had in terms of their raw emotion and immediate imagery. At the same time, I had to write my truth, which was that of a woman who lives her life in a clear glass bubble, sequestering her emotions. I felt an affinity with Emily Dickinson, another woman who lived in her own clear glass bubble, and I remembered that she died with most of her poems unread. My own truth has a very limited audience — 385 hits a week. or about 45 hits a day (Thanks, readers!)

Once I found out from my first NaNo that I can write over 50,000 words with a coherent plot, I realized I could write novels. However, I didn’t know that I could write good novels. I wrote those novels about other people, other situations, other plots — yet we write what we know, so the brittle beauty and the emotional turmoil still show up.

I hoped to prove my talent by getting an agent and, eventually, getting published. That has not happened. I have gotten over 200 rejections, and almost all of these read “This isn’t grabbing me” or some variation. I may still write novels. I may burn out and develop a project obsession (although we don’t have enough room room in the yard for a 4-season greenhouse with a hot tub. Believe me, I measured).

I’m rethinking a lot of things right now. But I will still finish those 30,000 words.

Baby Steps Back

Right now, I’m considering going back to Whose Hearts are Mountains — not to finish it up yet, but to sit down and look at the 70,000 words I’ve already written to see how I can balance the travelogue through a post-Collapse United States with the protagonist’s personal reactions — and field notes, because Annie IS an anthropologist.

I also have to make it plausible that the myriad of “incidents” (i.e. attacks) Annie experiences could be random malfeasances rather than the signs of a plot by Free White State’s government to capture her. I’m covering this for the next book in their series. I have to make the dreams and hints hint only toward her identity as a half-human, half-preternatural creature rather than the conspiracy that will be in the next book.

I also should work on the mental health book, which is going to require some primary sources. I’m too much an academic to use the Cliff Notes of bipolar disorder, Bipolar Disorder for Dummies. (I kid you not. Not even a tiny bit.) Biological psychology and psychiatry articles don’t intimidate me that much — ok, biopsych intimidates me a bit — it’s just that there’s so much “We don’t know what causes bipolar, but neurotransmitters are involved somewhere” that I can read without my brain going numb.

Yes, this is a lot of work I’m doing for something that may just be for the fun of it, given my total failure to find a agent. I may take a friend’s advice and try for literary fiction agents but not right now, not while I’m fighting off depression. Part of me wonders if writing, or at least putting 85,000 words into a novel (and I’ve done that with six so far) is a waste of time if I can’t get published. I like my creations to have an audience and speak to people, just as knitters want their family and friends to appreciate the gifts of socks and hats.

This is my dilemma, the one I have to get a handle on before I write again.