I just got a new job. This is good. It's at a carrot factory. This is less good. The hours are, shall we say, rather long. This is good and bad. Good, as the pay will be good. Bad, because working eight straight days for 85 hours and spending another 12 commuting eats up a huge part of your life. That's almost 100 hours out of a little more than a week. The pickings are a little bare after that. You scrape a minute off the ground here, find a few seconds around a corner there. Make a little pile and maybe you have a nice shiny hour.
To help myself through this I need, well, a carrot.
Dangle me something and I will chase. And my carrot to survive carrots is, of course, books.
On my only day off (after helping some family members move) I found some time to slip off to a bookstore. A chocolate iced-frappuccino in hand, I wandered. These were much better carrots than the ones I blasted with a water cannon for eleven or twelve hours a day.
So many covers, and pages, and words. So many sentences strung and set to dangle like bright Christmas lights.
I went with no set agenda. Just the lure of possibility, the dream of the unexpected. There's nothing quite like a bookstore -- tens of thousands of little treasure chests all set to be opened.
Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting cawwots.
I perused. Fingers sliding down rows, tap tap tapping on spines. Some I slide out. A glimpse of a cover. Words on the back. A flip of pages just to get the heft and feel of the book -- a sense of the texture of the pages, of how the book will fold and feel in my hand. Each book has a unique quality, vibrating at its own subtle and unique frequency.
Eventually I splurge, buying two instead of one. I end up with the new trade paperback of Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stair and Peter Ackroyd's Hawksmoor.
Magical carrots. There was something particular about these books, about the covers, the pages, the weight, the feel, the subtle and particular thingyness of the books and the stories they promised. They were the ones. I'd be back of course. One needs more than two carrots over the course of a life. But for now, these were the carrots I wanted. The chosen ones.
Now if only I had time to read.
And what about you? What are your carrots? Do any of you have book rewards? Get this done, succeed at this, survive that, and the new book by your favourite author will be yours? What are your favourite carrot books?
Because everyone needs carrot books. Right?
Monday, August 30, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The World in Miniature: Babysat by the Man in the Moon
by Matthew Rush
The Quintessentially Questionable Query Experiment
Babysat by the Man in the Moon
Mom drove. Dad navigated. They let me sit in the way back of our funny Peugeot Station Wagon. I sat and watched the grey river below and the green walls above fall away like the world was collapsing in upon itself.
It felt funny when we stopped. Then the entire world rushed back at me as if to say hello. It sort of felt like falling up and made my tummy tickle.
We stopped for Dungeoness Crab at a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths and waiters dressed up like penguins. I loved watching the alien monsters crawl all over each other in the tank. Pincers, eyes and antennae; they clicked against the glass lethargically but I imagined they were ancient warriors of an elder race who fought for honor among the crustacean tribes.
Later my dad cracked them open and I ate their legs. Mom said they were liquid inside until someone cooked them. That was gross but they tasted good with warm butter like runny egg yolk.
We drove into the Horse Heaven Hills for the Eclipse. Suddenly I was on the moon, the furthest reaches of space within my grasp. I reached out and caught hold of a distant star in the palm of my little hand. I was the Eater of Worlds! So I plucked a white dwarf down from Heaven and placed it lovingly into my mouth.
On the way home I tried to watch the grey river flow away below us, but it was dark and I was sleepy.
I yawned, laid back and watched the moon as he chased us across the sky. He looked cold and distant, like grandpa after he got sick, but still he looked down on me and never fell behind no matter how fast or how far we drove. His light was weak and thin outside but when it melted through the window it poured over my face like cool alpine mist. Delightful.
I relaxed as I listened to the tires sing a lullaby against the asphalt. Soothing.
I fell asleep watching that silly old man's face as he followed us across the world, never quite catching up but always watching over and enveloping me in a blanket of silver comfort. Dreaming.
The Quintessentially Questionable Query Experiment
Babysat by the Man in the Moon
Mom drove. Dad navigated. They let me sit in the way back of our funny Peugeot Station Wagon. I sat and watched the grey river below and the green walls above fall away like the world was collapsing in upon itself.
It felt funny when we stopped. Then the entire world rushed back at me as if to say hello. It sort of felt like falling up and made my tummy tickle.
We stopped for Dungeoness Crab at a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths and waiters dressed up like penguins. I loved watching the alien monsters crawl all over each other in the tank. Pincers, eyes and antennae; they clicked against the glass lethargically but I imagined they were ancient warriors of an elder race who fought for honor among the crustacean tribes.
Later my dad cracked them open and I ate their legs. Mom said they were liquid inside until someone cooked them. That was gross but they tasted good with warm butter like runny egg yolk.
We drove into the Horse Heaven Hills for the Eclipse. Suddenly I was on the moon, the furthest reaches of space within my grasp. I reached out and caught hold of a distant star in the palm of my little hand. I was the Eater of Worlds! So I plucked a white dwarf down from Heaven and placed it lovingly into my mouth.
On the way home I tried to watch the grey river flow away below us, but it was dark and I was sleepy.
I yawned, laid back and watched the moon as he chased us across the sky. He looked cold and distant, like grandpa after he got sick, but still he looked down on me and never fell behind no matter how fast or how far we drove. His light was weak and thin outside but when it melted through the window it poured over my face like cool alpine mist. Delightful.
I relaxed as I listened to the tires sing a lullaby against the asphalt. Soothing.
I fell asleep watching that silly old man's face as he followed us across the world, never quite catching up but always watching over and enveloping me in a blanket of silver comfort. Dreaming.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Beneath the Mountain
So what do you do when time is flattened and the hours and minutes are crushed as thin as paper? A few spare seconds leak out the side and you scoop them up and cherish them. But so little time...
The hours seem so boundless and empty at times, ready to be taken up and filled. And yet each one of those hours is so tenuous. So easily torn and blown away on the wind.
What do you do? How do you keep your writing (or editing!) alive when your time narrows drastically? Tips or tricks? Mental philosophy? What keeps you plugging? What's necessary for you?
The hours seem so boundless and empty at times, ready to be taken up and filled. And yet each one of those hours is so tenuous. So easily torn and blown away on the wind.
What do you do? How do you keep your writing (or editing!) alive when your time narrows drastically? Tips or tricks? Mental philosophy? What keeps you plugging? What's necessary for you?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
If You're Digging an Endless Ditch, Bill Schulz is Your Best Friend
Good writing is hard work. Am I the only one who once thought it would be easier?
When I was young, and realized I had some talent, I think there was a feeling of inevitability about success, about good writing. I would read a lot, and practice writing, and there it would be: a bit of great writing of my own.
Yet the longer I live, the more I realize how much work is required. The craft seems to get more complex as we go along, rather than simpler. Revise and edit, and then revise and edit again... It's one hefty ditch we have to dig. And sometimes it feels like we're digging with a spoon.
I think I've known for years that perseverence is often just as important as talent. You need talent, but it won't take you anywhere without hard work. And yet the sheer weight of that work as you progress... you want to be a published novelist? It's going to take effort. Effort on effort on effort.
Doggedness is so important. Not just to study the craft, not just to write day after day. But to face rejection and continue. To face critique and step up to it only to face critique again. And again. Because an agent is going to critique. And then an editor. A copyeditor. Reviewers. Readers. And you simply have to continue writing, digging, working.
And it's harder early on, when you are so uncertain of success (however you define success). How do you keep digging?
Good ol' Charlie Brown, right? There's something a little sad and funny about his determination, and yet there's a joy in his optimism, a sort of hope that is almost heroic. He's always there to take another kick at the ball, though chances at success are slim. All your life, Charlie Brown, all your life.
But he's dogged. He's gonna keep pushing. If Charlie Brown had a ditch to dig, I have this feeling he wouldn't be stopped. Can anyone here picture Charlie Brown putting down the shovel? If there's one thing Charlie Brown won't do, it's quit.
What about you? How do you keep digging? What pushes you through to draft 27 despite everything standing in your way?
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The World in Miniature: Red Hat Day
by Jean Airey
www.suncoastwriters.com
RED
HAT DAY
The
hat was too large and the shoes too small. The dress had been on sale
at the Outlet for 90% off plus her Monday discount.
Her
legs felt strange, loose fabric flapping around them. But she would
do. The colors were right. That was the main thing.
She'd
seen them on the street, laughing. Groups. Watching as she sat on a
bench – not long on one, moving to another, watching them order
food at the outside tables. They'd chatter and giggle and only eat
half of it. Waiting for them to leave. Then a quick walk by. Just a
bite of this or that. She didn't eat much.
Today
there were large groups of them. A big party. She could stand up,
walk with them. Just a little behind, though. A smile, a question –
she would run. It had been too long.
This
was for the old cat who needed special food. She could eat anything,
but he depended on her. She'd never let anyone down. Ever. All the
years and the jobs that didn't need someone who could read or write.
A hard worker, they'd say. Always the first to be let go.
At
the corner she turned and walked toward the bank. The small revolver
hung heavy in the dress pocket. It wasn't loaded. Maybe next time.
www.suncoastwriters.com
RED
HAT DAY
The
hat was too large and the shoes too small. The dress had been on sale
at the Outlet for 90% off plus her Monday discount.
Her
legs felt strange, loose fabric flapping around them. But she would
do. The colors were right. That was the main thing.
She'd
seen them on the street, laughing. Groups. Watching as she sat on a
bench – not long on one, moving to another, watching them order
food at the outside tables. They'd chatter and giggle and only eat
half of it. Waiting for them to leave. Then a quick walk by. Just a
bite of this or that. She didn't eat much.
Today
there were large groups of them. A big party. She could stand up,
walk with them. Just a little behind, though. A smile, a question –
she would run. It had been too long.
This
was for the old cat who needed special food. She could eat anything,
but he depended on her. She'd never let anyone down. Ever. All the
years and the jobs that didn't need someone who could read or write.
A hard worker, they'd say. Always the first to be let go.
At
the corner she turned and walked toward the bank. The small revolver
hung heavy in the dress pocket. It wasn't loaded. Maybe next time.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Destiny Has Many Faces
There's a bit of writing advice I hear a lot around the interwebz, and it's something with which I agree -- with a caveat.
First, the advice: As writers we shouldn't let anyone change our story from what it's meant to be. In other words, we should write our story the way that's right, and not worry about word count, genre, audience, etc.
There's value in this, in the idea that it's our story, and that we should always have full possession of it. We shouldn't automatically be swayed by every comment or critique of our writing; all opinions are not equal. A critique is only as valuable as what we do with it. A brilliant critique is only brilliant if it helps us transform our story in a positive way. A terrible critique is only terrible if we let it sway us in the wrong direction.
As a writer we have to take ownership of our writing. Its path is ours and ours alone to plot -- all committees are advisory only.
But... here's the caveat: It's easier to accept our story as definitive, as finished, than it is to explore change.
Destiny has many faces. And so too does our story, at least in the realm of possibility. The danger of the above writing advice is that the process becomes static. We see our story as fated - we see it as we first imagined it, as we wrote it out on the page. And, look, it's on the page! Finished! This concrete thing! Yes, we can tweak some sentences, the dialogue here and there. But the story is done. This is the story as it's meant to be, written in stone.
But what is that, exactly? What is meant to be? Is any story simply meant to be one thing and one thing only? We have a vision, certainly. But visions are malleable things. We ourselves often change, and our stories can change with us -- but only if we are open to the possibility, the idea that fate has many forms.
It can be an excuse for us, you see -- Oh, I can't change this, it's not what was meant to be. But that meaning is always wholly within us, and is bound only by what we can see and imagine. Yes, some things will lead us astray from what we want. We have to guard against this... but without closing ourselves off to the possibility of change, even deep change.
Destiny has many faces. I touched on this with my guest post for Nathan Bransford a few weeks ago. I think what I wanted writers to take away was the idea that you could see the story from within, that you could write in new doors and rooms to any story. Will they be right? Some yes, some no. But if we're never willing to make the attempt we're tying off our own possibilities, the power of our own imagination.
God built the world, and on the seventh day He rested. And on the eighth? Perhaps things started to evolve, to change - perhaps God started an endless revision in search of a final story.
Are we any different? The story is before us, always running into a future full of possibilities. We can cut things away, story elements becoming extinct, living on only as ghosts of memory. Yet the story remains, a fluid thing, open (as always) to possibility -- eternity is merely a story of continual genesis.
First, the advice: As writers we shouldn't let anyone change our story from what it's meant to be. In other words, we should write our story the way that's right, and not worry about word count, genre, audience, etc.
There's value in this, in the idea that it's our story, and that we should always have full possession of it. We shouldn't automatically be swayed by every comment or critique of our writing; all opinions are not equal. A critique is only as valuable as what we do with it. A brilliant critique is only brilliant if it helps us transform our story in a positive way. A terrible critique is only terrible if we let it sway us in the wrong direction.
As a writer we have to take ownership of our writing. Its path is ours and ours alone to plot -- all committees are advisory only.
But... here's the caveat: It's easier to accept our story as definitive, as finished, than it is to explore change.
Destiny has many faces. And so too does our story, at least in the realm of possibility. The danger of the above writing advice is that the process becomes static. We see our story as fated - we see it as we first imagined it, as we wrote it out on the page. And, look, it's on the page! Finished! This concrete thing! Yes, we can tweak some sentences, the dialogue here and there. But the story is done. This is the story as it's meant to be, written in stone.
But what is that, exactly? What is meant to be? Is any story simply meant to be one thing and one thing only? We have a vision, certainly. But visions are malleable things. We ourselves often change, and our stories can change with us -- but only if we are open to the possibility, the idea that fate has many forms.
It can be an excuse for us, you see -- Oh, I can't change this, it's not what was meant to be. But that meaning is always wholly within us, and is bound only by what we can see and imagine. Yes, some things will lead us astray from what we want. We have to guard against this... but without closing ourselves off to the possibility of change, even deep change.
Destiny has many faces. I touched on this with my guest post for Nathan Bransford a few weeks ago. I think what I wanted writers to take away was the idea that you could see the story from within, that you could write in new doors and rooms to any story. Will they be right? Some yes, some no. But if we're never willing to make the attempt we're tying off our own possibilities, the power of our own imagination.
God built the world, and on the seventh day He rested. And on the eighth? Perhaps things started to evolve, to change - perhaps God started an endless revision in search of a final story.
Are we any different? The story is before us, always running into a future full of possibilities. We can cut things away, story elements becoming extinct, living on only as ghosts of memory. Yet the story remains, a fluid thing, open (as always) to possibility -- eternity is merely a story of continual genesis.
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