More or Less an Analysis

One of the things I wrestle too much with in my writing — am I telling the reader too little? Too much?

The first thing I think of is Chekhov’s Gun, the rule that if something is important to the plot, it should be introduced before it becomes important. My first segment, then, is a veritable Clue game (“Look! There’s the candlestick that Mr. Mustard will use to kill the deceased in the parlor!”), but is it too much? Or too little?

What do we know from yesterday’s post of the first segment (yesterday’s post)?

Annie’s mother is a cultural anthropologist who supposedly told Annie odd bedtime stories when she was a child;
Annie doesn’t remember her childhood;
Annie has chosen to follow her steps, focusing on urban legends;
Annie’s stepfather was/is a renowned cryptographer for the government, and kept possession of codes when he left his position and changed his identity;
Annie dabbles in cryptology and inherits his cipher box and codes;
Her parents die three months after that passage in a home invasion;
An unknown time has passed, and Annie is remembering the incident.

I worry about whether I’m doing the right thing by not explaining these things more, but the too little/too much dichotomy runs through my head when I reread it:

Are the items above too much for the first thousand words of a book? Should I put in more description so it doesn’t feel like an information dump?
Have I given too little reference to time, so that I strand the readers in limbo and give them no clue as how the segment fits in the book?
Does Annie not worry enough about coming into possession of what might be government secrets?
Can I just leave Annie’s casual mention of not having childhood memories (a rare thing to not have any before a certain age) as something she just accepts, or do I have to explain more?
And, most importantly, does this beginning make my readers want to read more of it?

Just under a thousand words, and I have this many questions to answer. In some ways, writing fiction reminds me of writing my dissertation way back when — I’m relieved when the number of comments in red in the margins finally becomes less than the number of words I’ve written.

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.

Conversation with A Fictitious Author

I sat at an isolated seat in Starbucks sipping at a blonde espresso. My computer sat before me, unopened, as I wondered how to start writing again. I glanced up, and a man in his thirties, dressed like a professor in a red sweater and white Oxford shirt and jeans, strode toward me. He didn’t look like any of my colleagues, although as time passed, it seemed I knew fewer and fewer of them. This man could have blended into a faculty reception without notice — of middling height and slight build, myopic brown eyes behind round steel-rimmed glasses —

I recognized him as he sat down, and understood why nobody else noticed him. The wide, vaguely almond-shaped eyes crinkled when he smiled at me —

“I figured I’d find you here.” Josh Young, chronicler of the sociomagical experiment known as Barn Swallows’ Dance — and writer of magical realism to the outside world — peered at me. “How’s progress on the book?”

“Books,” I corrected. “Two fiction and one not-so-fiction.” I studied my paper cup of espresso. “They’re not going well. I’m having trouble getting back to writing after my latest round of rejections, but you wouldn’t know that.”

The New York Times bestselling writer, who had won that distinction by the time he was thirty, suddenly seemed a little taller and more substantial. Of course — it was his connection to the earth-soul Gaia, to the sprinkling of trees that grew outside the library Starbucks. Nobody else, again, noticed. “Do you know why I’ve had the success in getting published?” I heard leaves whisper in his tenor voice.

“Because you’re really good at writing?” I met his gaze and his challenge.

“Because you wrote me that way. Because you wrote me as someone who studied writing fiction and wrote literary fiction and sent it to literary fiction agents. You wrote me as someone who not only had great talent, but great luck.”

“I wrote you to be a better writer than me?” I stammered.

“I can’t be better than the person who’s writing me — you see?” Josh chuckled, a dry sound that reminded me of leaves again. “I will say, though, that you wrote some lofty aspirations for me. If this wasn’t fantasy, I’d get rejected just as much as you do. The idea is to tell your truth, and tell it over and over until someone listens.” Josh walked his fingers toward my espresso, and I tapped his hand with my spoon in warning.

“But what if no one listens?” I threw the rest of the quad espresso down my throat as if it were a shot of whiskey and slammed the paper cup on the table.

Josh raised his eyebrows and peered over his glasses at me. “Then that’s their problem, because if you don’t listen and discern, you don’t learn, you fail to adapt, and you die. The first law of nature.”

I remembered when Josh was a college student, a little more frail with spiked hair and bright t-shirts. This man, thirteen years later, was no less beautiful, but he had calmed from the black-clad, precocious poetry slam artist to an equally precocious, wry and weighty scholar. He glanced down at the table, breaking eye contact. “Yes?” I asked.

“There’s a question I need to ask.” He paused for a noticeable increment of time. “Will I outlive –“

I knew the end of that question, and why Josh wanted to know. The love of his life, Jeanne Beaumont-Young, was thirty years older than him, which I guessed made her about 63. Of course, I had written about the end of this committed couple’s life together.

“Jeanne will live an extremely long life,” I ventured slowly, “and she will outlive you, but by only six months.” I withheld his cause of death, an undetected aneurysm, because it would make no difference — the fatal defect would be inoperable.

Josh nodded. “You could have taken the easy way out and had us both die at the same time, or you could have made me wait twenty years.” He stood, shook my hand, and wandered off, looking like any other professor who frequented the campus Starbucks.

Soon, to my surprise, he returned, eyes twinkling, with another stout blond espresso. “Writers need their coffee,” he grinned, and faded into the crowded coffeehouse.

Callings and the Household’s Stories

First off, Marcie says hi. She’s just about done with her first novel, Chucky the Cat Saves the World. She’s tried to convince Chucky to illustrate it, but the negotiations haven’t been going well.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to convince Girly-Girl, who’s sitting next to me, to write a memoir. I’ve suggested the title I’ve Seen Everything and I Don’t Care Anymore. She didn’t care for that.

i’m trying to convince my husband to seek out an agent. He writes in science fiction and he understands the genre very well — its subject matter; its focus on machines, science, and battles; its masculinist roots. I believe he could find an agent pretty quickly, and I wonder if the reason I felt called to writing was to get him to write, and find him a career.

I’m still confused as to what I’ve been called to do, and whether I’ve been called to write. Callings are very important among Quakers — we believe that if we sit quietly enough, God will show us our callings. I haven’t felt anything as a calling for so long that I feel adrift.

When I start writing again, calling or no, I don’t know what I’ll start writing on again. I’m afraid of the creative memoir about bipolar disorder. Although it’s attractive being heard, I don’t want people to think of me as “THAT person,” the one you have to keep an eye on. Yes, as open as I am about my situation, I am afraid of people who judge. Sometimes I want to run away from this blog because I’ve talked about it here.

I feel stymied by Hearts are Mountains. It’s reading like a depressing travelogue, and I don’t know what it needs. It’s a bit flat. I might want to go back to Prodigies, but I wonder if that’s going very well either. I doubt everything since all the rejections.

I hope that I find my direction soon — in or out of writing, I don’t know. But I hope I find my calling.

My plate contains a smorgasbord

I have three books I’m working on at the same time. Three.

I don’t know how it came to this — well, I do. I was working on Prodigies, a dystopic contemporary fantasy about two teens born with unusual capabilities in influencing emotions and thus actions. Because of this, they are in danger from shadowy entities who find them potentially useful. Yes, it has shades of Heroes (a TV show that played from 2006-10), but it has multiple differences, too. This might become a YA novel if I finish it.

Then, my husband and partner in crime suggested I write the 20-something-year-old idea then named “Dirty Commie Gypsy Elves” by a friend of mine. That was my NaNo project, it’s since become two books and I’m working on expanding on the first so it’s a novel and not a novella.

Finally there’s my non-fiction/poetry/prose/story/research book explaining life with bipolar. That project is currently called “Ups and Downs”.

OOPS. I’m also editing a book on roleplayer support in disaster simulation exercises and writing two chapters of it. That’s four books.

***********
The most compelling project right now is the non-fiction item because it’s creative, informative, and autobiographical. But both of the other books are begging for attention just now. Did I say I was going to quit writing because of too many rejections? (Oops, I forgot to quit.) Do I worry that my ideas don’t seem to quit? (Yes, I do, a little. Is it time for a med check?) Do I still wish someone would publish my stuff so people would read it and I would have money to put into a new computer that had more storage and could handle graphics? (Absolutely.)

I guess I can’t NOT be a writer.

Setting a Reminder

Right now, my writing routine is disordered. It’s the first week of Spring semester, and I expend a lot of energy setting the scene in my classes for the semester. The creative space in my mind is filled with strategies for getting students to interact more in my class. My cognitive skills grind in the background on new tricks for explaining concepts.

When I get home from work, I’m tired. I’m “I can’t think anymore” tired. “Let’s watch some cat videos — aren’t those cats darling? (*sniffle*) tired. I study potential garden plants for my edible landscaping project, and somehow noting that Nectaroscordum tripedale is in the Allium family and will grow in USDA zone 5 takes up fewer brain cells than writing.

The exhaustion gets better once I get back into my routine. Three weeks from now I won’t even flinch at the everyday chaos — trudging through blowing snow into the building; the rare bedbug scare; the projector that refuses to project. My class plans will need adjusting but, hey, I’m a professional here. But those first two weeks wring me out.

I force myself to write during those times. I write this blog, even though I stare at the screen at times like this, searching my brain for topics. I set a task on my reminder software to write an hour every day.

It turns out that I don’t want to lose my writing, even if I never get published. I want the discipline, I want the joy of finally doing something with my creative side. I’ll have to take breaks, I’m sure. But I’ll fight myself — my exhaustion and my discouragement — to keep writing.

My 250th entry!

Today marks my 250th entry in this blog.

I’m really surprised. Previously, blogs I have started have generally lasted about two entries before I didn’t know what to write anymore. I think this is mostly because they were just journaling, out loud, when I was feeling bad about something. They weren’t so much blogs — they were emotion dumps, and I was so embarassed by them I couldn’t let them continue.

My husband and I (mostly my husband) kept a blog together once. This was more of a journal about our lives — “This is what happened today”. I think the reason we quit writing that blog was Facebook, which is largely a forum of short-form “This is what happened today” essays. Facebook proves that we are all writers at heart.

I tried something new with this blog. A combination of observations about writing, essays about writing skills, and personal works, this blog strives to talk about what it means to be a writer, and that one can be a writer in spirit without ever publishing. I hope I have done what I set out to do.

Thank you for reading!

In the End, I’m Still a Writer.

I wake up at 5 AM US Central Standard Time every day — yes, I know that’s really, really early — so I have time for getting ready, and eating breakfast, and prepping for the day at work — and writing.

Yes, that’s how much writing has become a part of my life. It’s like a dysfunctional boyfriend. Writing flirts, it teases, it demands my attention on its schedule, and when I need it to be there for me, it flees, taking my ideas with me. Still, I can’t break up with writing, because it fascinates me. I sit at the coffeehouse and hope that writing will show up for me.

On the flipside, my imagination may be the chaos that writing seeks to tame. I, and my passions, may well be that muse that challenges me at coffee (“Tell me who you think I am”), who I have personified as an incarnation of Pan, all intensity and chaos, joy and panic, abandon of all things sensible. (I’ll admit this is disappointing in a way, because Pan is sexy as hell.)

I am the storm; I am the storm’s eye.

For this reason, I have to write.

Thank you for listening.

Depression and how it feels

I stare out the window at a bleak landscape of snow and dead trees. I can’t go outside; the doors have drifted shut. The walls of the house whisper to me that I will always be trapped in this house and the others will leave me to die. Time passes; I can’t tell how much time, but now the walls tell me that when I die, I will have left nothing behind me. I will disappear as if I have never existed.
Nothing will change; nothing will ever change.
*****
Note: I’m not REALLY hearing the walls talk to me. This is figurative, damn it.
*****
I’ve been struggling with depression. It happens sometimes; if it persists or gets worse, I will have to see my doctor. I don’t usually struggle with my neurodiversity — i.e. not being wired like everyone else, which refers to a variety of mental differences one could have such as bipolar, autism spectrum and other mental health issues. However, when my moods go too far above or below the imaginary line of normal, I struggle.

You may have heard that depression is not just a “bad mood”, an accurate description. I can present to my students an enthusiastic facade. I can even be that enthusiastic, chipper person while I’m teaching. I can even “catch a mood” and feel chipper for a while afterward. But in depression, that state doesn’t last long, and I fall back to a feeling of hopelessness.

I’m ok; I’m doing what I need to do. My husband is keeping an eye on me.
Still, pop in and say hi if you’d like.

*****
It looks like I’ll still write — although I may not go the novel route for a while. I’ve never cared about getting anything else — like my poetry and essays — published, so I won’t deal with the rejection. I’m here because I think I have things worth saying.

What I Discovered from Thinking About Writing So Far

I’m still thinking about it. And I suspect this doesn’t make for interesting reading, but I need to sort it out and maybe crowdsourcing will help.

This is what soul-searching uncovered:

I may be having trouble with my medications (depression/sleeplessness). Keeping an eye on that.
What got me interested in writing part 1: Writing is fun to play with. It turns nebulous pieces of imagination into a captivating work of art.
What got me interested in writing part 2: expressing my emotions. This is why I want to be heard — because expressing them is not enough, as anyone who’s posted a frustrating story on Facebook only to get no responses knows.
What kept me in writing part 1: Learning more about it; perfecting my craft.
What kept me in writing part 2: The possibility of getting published. I’m a little bit addicted to recognition, and I haven’t been getting much from my day job in oh, say, the last ten years.

Then I evaluated the status of the above:

I readjusted the dosage of a suspected medication (the label suggests a range of dosage as needed), and have yet to see whether that fixes the depression and sleepiness. If not, other action needs to be taken.
Writing is still fun to play with. Lots of fun. I love subverting paradigms — a romance novel where neither of the characters are beautiful, a battle without violence, a fantasy that involves very ordinary people who have powers and are still very ordinary. This might be part of the reason I’m not ready for prime time genre fiction. I don’t know.
I can still express my emotions while writing. I don’t know how I feel about posting my works not knowing if any live persons read them or what they think/feel.
I still love perfecting my craft. I’ve learned all I can on my own, and it hasn’t gotten me published, so I suspect it’s not enough. Now I need a professional developmental editor. I can’t afford an editor right now because I’m the only earner in the household. I’ve learned all I can from non-professional editors as well.
I just don’t know where this stands. Agents pick what they like, which is what they know and what they think they can sell. Rejections can mean they don’t like my work, they don’t think it will sell, and/or they’re not familiar with my style. I don’t know which, because the only critique I ever got back was “brush up your query letter”, which I did. There’s no way of knowing with form letters. I still have stuff out there, however.

Deep down, I had a fantasy that people would say “Don’t stop writing! I like your stuff!”, but that’s a fantasy that doesn’t lend itself to adulthood. In adulthood, I have the ultimate decision to continue, or not continue, or give up sending queries and just write novels (six with two partial documents on the way), or go back to just writing poetry for myself.

I haven’t decided yet. Any comments would be appreciated.