It's Saturday afternoon
Mar. 4th, 2006 02:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ksmith...and I'm sparkin' like nobody's business. Everything I touch that's even vaguely metallic/electronic. The Mac speaker control. The car keys. Doorknobs. The handle on the treadmill that's supposed to monitor my pulse when I squeeze it. I will be glad when Spring arrives and the air moistens. We may get a taste of things to come this week, since temps are supposed to climb into the 50s/60s. I walked around the yard yesterday and looked for signs of daffodil or crocus sproutage. Nothing yet, but I'm keeping a look out.
The morning was spent on errands. Post office. Carwash, where I wound up with $10 in quarters when I put the bill into the wrong change machine. Oh well, coins work as well as paper. Grocery shopping, where things like lamb chops and brownies and raspberry coffeecake were bought. Out to lunch--was intending to eat healthy, but opted for the fish fry special instead. I think I heard one molecule of Omega-3 fatty acid gurgling in a sea of whatever it was they fried that fish in. Oh well--I eat a full-out fish fry about once a year. If that's enough to do me in, I wasn't in good shape to begin with.
Besides, I had a glass of wine to emulsify things.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Yesterday was the first day back at the day job. I know it seems odd to return on a Friday, but it actually worked out. I had time to wade through all my emails and paper mail. Ordered business cards with the new title and new format. Talked to co-workers about how nice it felt to take off the time.
I cannot put into words how odd it felt to be back. Really, I can't. In a way, it was like I never left. In another, it was like, what am I doing here?
My life to this point has been a series of well-thought-out/semi-well-thought-out decisions punctuated by moments of monumental stupidity. We are going to attempt to minimize the MoMS in the future, or at least confine them to categories that will not impact my well-being to any great degree. IOW, Gentle Readers, I will not be throwing in the towel at the day job any time soon because boy, would that be a MoMS to end all MoMS. Works of fiction are what I write, not what I live. We will be reasonable about this, she told herself, because the alternative would make for too many sleepless nights.
Speaking of fiction, much discussion this week about the writing life in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jaylake's and matociquala's LJs, with some cross-referencing to arcaedia's journal as well.
What to add? Anything else seems extraneous. Writing's a craft, and skills need to be acquired. Sometimes, it's not much fun. Sometimes, you cry. It's frustrating, and unless skill and luck and serendip combine in just the right way, it doesn't pay particularly well either. If you don't enjoy the process, you're going to spend a lot of time hating what you're doing for not much payoff in money, glory, or ego-boo.
The top rung of the ladder you're on is the bottom rung of the ladder you need to climb next. That's true for anything at which you wish to excel, and it's true for writing. As others have said, that sense of finally knowing what you're doing is strongest when you know the least. The more you learn about assembling a plot, defining character, building tension, the less adept you think you are. Every word you put down seems to limit you, because you know there are lots of other words out there and odds are that the one you pick is the wrong one. Every structural decision you make limits you. Every plot turn. You envision this airy, otherworldly Castle Neuschwanstein of a tale, and then you look at what you've wrought, damn it for the MacMansion that it is, and smash it to bits because it's not right. And start over, remembering all the while that good, solid ranches with real wood cabinets, full basements that don't leak, and premium woodwork and tile have their place as well. In my case, giving myself permission to *not* write the Great American SF Novel proved liberating because it freed me to concentrate on constructing a solid story I enjoyed writing, inhabited by characters I liked. That's the part that's within my power. Anything else--critical acclaim, sales--will or won't come. I have to concentrate on what I can do. Only about 10% of what I envision the story to be will make it onto the page. My problem comes in choosing the right 10%.
I write slowly, and I got started late. I boggle at folks who've published in their 20s--I didn't feel much, if any, urge to even begin to write in my 20s. I started a book in undergrad about a strong female protag, a rebel leader (gee, really?) which petered out after a few handwritten pages. As I think I've said before, I started writing in earnest in my early 30s. It took me six years to write CODE, which sold a month or two before I turned 40. Prior to that, a couple of mystery mag rejections. I am going to dig those stories out of the backbrain eventually, because I think they're decent. But I don't have the imaginative backlog that other writers have, and sometimes that really worries me. I keep telling myself that I'm just a late starter. I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was 8, swim until I was 11, or drive until I was 22. Maybe this means I won't hit my stride until my 50s and 60s. I wouldn't mind that at all.
The morning was spent on errands. Post office. Carwash, where I wound up with $10 in quarters when I put the bill into the wrong change machine. Oh well, coins work as well as paper. Grocery shopping, where things like lamb chops and brownies and raspberry coffeecake were bought. Out to lunch--was intending to eat healthy, but opted for the fish fry special instead. I think I heard one molecule of Omega-3 fatty acid gurgling in a sea of whatever it was they fried that fish in. Oh well--I eat a full-out fish fry about once a year. If that's enough to do me in, I wasn't in good shape to begin with.
Besides, I had a glass of wine to emulsify things.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Yesterday was the first day back at the day job. I know it seems odd to return on a Friday, but it actually worked out. I had time to wade through all my emails and paper mail. Ordered business cards with the new title and new format. Talked to co-workers about how nice it felt to take off the time.
I cannot put into words how odd it felt to be back. Really, I can't. In a way, it was like I never left. In another, it was like, what am I doing here?
My life to this point has been a series of well-thought-out/semi-well-thought-out decisions punctuated by moments of monumental stupidity. We are going to attempt to minimize the MoMS in the future, or at least confine them to categories that will not impact my well-being to any great degree. IOW, Gentle Readers, I will not be throwing in the towel at the day job any time soon because boy, would that be a MoMS to end all MoMS. Works of fiction are what I write, not what I live. We will be reasonable about this, she told herself, because the alternative would make for too many sleepless nights.
Speaking of fiction, much discussion this week about the writing life in
jaylake's and matociquala's LJs, with some cross-referencing to arcaedia's journal as well. What to add? Anything else seems extraneous. Writing's a craft, and skills need to be acquired. Sometimes, it's not much fun. Sometimes, you cry. It's frustrating, and unless skill and luck and serendip combine in just the right way, it doesn't pay particularly well either. If you don't enjoy the process, you're going to spend a lot of time hating what you're doing for not much payoff in money, glory, or ego-boo.
The top rung of the ladder you're on is the bottom rung of the ladder you need to climb next. That's true for anything at which you wish to excel, and it's true for writing. As others have said, that sense of finally knowing what you're doing is strongest when you know the least. The more you learn about assembling a plot, defining character, building tension, the less adept you think you are. Every word you put down seems to limit you, because you know there are lots of other words out there and odds are that the one you pick is the wrong one. Every structural decision you make limits you. Every plot turn. You envision this airy, otherworldly Castle Neuschwanstein of a tale, and then you look at what you've wrought, damn it for the MacMansion that it is, and smash it to bits because it's not right. And start over, remembering all the while that good, solid ranches with real wood cabinets, full basements that don't leak, and premium woodwork and tile have their place as well. In my case, giving myself permission to *not* write the Great American SF Novel proved liberating because it freed me to concentrate on constructing a solid story I enjoyed writing, inhabited by characters I liked. That's the part that's within my power. Anything else--critical acclaim, sales--will or won't come. I have to concentrate on what I can do. Only about 10% of what I envision the story to be will make it onto the page. My problem comes in choosing the right 10%.
I write slowly, and I got started late. I boggle at folks who've published in their 20s--I didn't feel much, if any, urge to even begin to write in my 20s. I started a book in undergrad about a strong female protag, a rebel leader (gee, really?) which petered out after a few handwritten pages. As I think I've said before, I started writing in earnest in my early 30s. It took me six years to write CODE, which sold a month or two before I turned 40. Prior to that, a couple of mystery mag rejections. I am going to dig those stories out of the backbrain eventually, because I think they're decent. But I don't have the imaginative backlog that other writers have, and sometimes that really worries me. I keep telling myself that I'm just a late starter. I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was 8, swim until I was 11, or drive until I was 22. Maybe this means I won't hit my stride until my 50s and 60s. I wouldn't mind that at all.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
MoMS?
Date: 2006-03-04 09:47 pm (UTC)Re: MoMS?
Date: 2006-03-04 09:49 pm (UTC)Pretty sure I defined it in the body of the post.
Re: MoMS?
Date: 2006-03-06 06:54 pm (UTC)Re: MoMS?
Date: 2006-03-07 02:07 am (UTC)Glad you liked it.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-04 11:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-05 12:06 am (UTC)After those were done, I started on the real draft.
**I was prepared to quit writing at this point. I sent off the prologue for pre-conference critique, and the guy who read it *hated* it ("Overall, not the most pleasant reading experience."). The only reason I went to the conference is because I'd already paid for it. I attended a few of the workshops, then asked the leader of the spec fic workshop to read the piece the other guy had hated. The work had horror/SFnal overtones--if a spec fic guy didn't like it, then I knew it was more than just a matter of taste.
He liked it. He asked me to read it in the workshop the next day, and made some really nice comments. Then he awarded me the workshop prize. I know folks say you need to be willing to push through regardless of the slings and arrows, but I *really* needed some validation at that point and the prize helped.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-05 02:52 am (UTC)This was a really great post. I've suffered from the disappointment of ending up with McMansion when I see Neuschwanstein so clearly in my head too. (I love that comparison). :-)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-05 03:45 am (UTC)The inability to transcribe the air castle can be aggravating. You do the best you can, then you turn it over to the reader, who will bring something of their own to the exercise, and possibly find the castle. Unfortunately, you may want them to go to the throne room, where you think all the neat stuff is, and they may want to stay in the stables and play with the ponies. But that's a subject for another post.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-05 04:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-05 03:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-05 04:15 pm (UTC)It didn't matter whether there were people to talk to at home or not. I needed to get out.
I wouldn't feel this conflicted if I liked my current job more. We'll see how the next round of Growth Planning goes. I attempted to change course last year, but that didn't work out. But something fell into my lap late last year that might provide the foundation for at least a partial change of pace. *fingers crossed*
I hope the next few months aren't as bad as you fear. Is this because of the merger?