One author's life in the writing trenches with news about her new NOIR SERIES, the pains and joys of writing memoir, her lust for travel, and an imagination that won't shut down.
It’s
been a tough few weeks for my fellow writers, friends and family. Short
version: a sister who has separated from the love of her life; a close creative
friend having a daughter post a blog about all of mom’s perceived failures as a
mother; a dear friend and accomplished novelist who has had her editor
reject the latest novel while all along saying she loved it; and our oldest
granddaughter, well, for lack of a better way to say it, going to the dark
side.
Ai,
we all face a stream of these situations at times, and the combined heartache
loads us down too much to be creative or funny, and we have to wait out the
storm.
But
when the storm sends a giant wave that hits our writing broadside (like a lying
editor) you fear you’ll sink. The publishing world is cruel, no bones about it.
Writers pray to Neptune to manage the difficult waters. Our fear is we’ll be at
sea and Neptune will have a hissy fit, strike the ground with his trident, and
capsize our ship.
But
most of the time, the damage is to the psyche. Remember being picked last for a
baseball team? Now picture millions standing there, waiting to be picked for
their writing talent (or marketability, as the case may be). It’s not hyperbole
when people tell you getting published by a New York publisher is like winning
the lottery. I often think that submitting a new novel to an editor is like
taking a lovely new puppy to the vet, and the vet says, “I’m sorry, your puppy
is not as cute as the others I’ve seen,” then after examining your dear pup,
adds, “and your puppy needs a major operation, and I’m not sure which
organ needs to come out for your puppy to live.”
This
is how we often interpret editor’s feedback on "our baby." In order to stay afloat, writers
rely heavily on the advice of our fellow shipmates as to what to do.
Unfortunately, no matter our skills, our background, our connections, we can’t
control outside forces, we can only manage how we deal with them. There's no map to the right route. And sometimes that
results in wailing and crying and cursing, because who is going to tell us with
any accuracy what is wrong with our puppy and what organ needs extracting? Or
even if this is an accurate diagnosis? Add to that our new publishing world
and all those personal and family storms and we're lucky we can launch at all.
However! I believe it’s you, reader, who keeps us going and will ultimately
determine what speaks to you and who saves someone’s puppy. As one dear friend said, "Picture your novel on someone's bedside table," and I do.
My
heart goes out to all creatives, for we live in times where GDP trumps GNH
(Gross National Happiness in Bhutan). Ultimately we are alone in dealing with
our shipwrecks, our storms, and the attacks. But in the world of writing and
creating, our fellow crewmembers keep us from jumping overboard.
And
with that, I direct you, mates, to this blog entry, “Creativity,” by my
brilliant friend Barbara Sullivan. I think it speaks best if read aloud because
it connects the two body parts, heart and brain, that can never be extracted.
Have ye e’er been bothered by a wee word? One that should be tossed ov’r board and fed to the sharks? Good. ‘Cause here’s me rant. And here’s the word.
Platform.
Aye, sweet writing buccaneers. I can already see a few of ya ready to mutiny. But be honest now. Have ye not come to wretch when ye see the word? Have ye not bristled, choked back a curse, gripped your sword and wanted to draw blood when someone asks, “What’s your platform?”
This drivel, this flat piece of shark bait, this dead piece of word smithing, is not worthy of us. It shackles us to someone else’s chain of cheap commerce. Are we free, creative beings, or are we toeing the line of someone else’s gobshite?
For those pirates out there selling their “platform wares,” I’m not stickin’ it to you. You’re as much a slave to this as we all are. Aye, I understand the “we-have-to-promote-and-market-our-books-and-ourselves,” but do we have to do it with so little …
Imagination?
Creativity?
Days ago on NPR’s Fresh Air, they be re-broadcasting author Gary Shteyngart’s interview with Terry Gross ‘cause his novel Super Sad True Love Story is out in paperback. Alas, I be thinkin’, another author slinging his wares.
But I stayed on his story, and glad I was! He’s a true pirate with his irreverent talk. From his tales of growin’ up fat to observin’ that porn is norm these days, he was entertainin’. He’s a funny buccaneer, he is. Then he was asked why he be makin’ a satirical trailer for his book and he says,
"Well, nowadays nobody wants to read books, so anything you can do to sell book, you know, if I could sneak a book into - inside a knish and sell it that way, you know, buy the knish and then read my book when you finish eating it, that's fine with me too."
Shiver me timbers!
A knish?
Brilliant!
Hark, Gary Shteyngart!
I’m on board with the knish. I’m on board with the satirical trailer. I’m on board with someone who, I think, can replace the boring, overused, flat form of platform.
Gary, can you do this?
To Ye Readers
Not a writer's platform
For all ye beauties who read, I should explain.
A writer’s platform is not a shipping crate turned upside down, shoes with very thick soles, or a structure where you sacrifice virgins to your gods.
In the writer’s world, a “platform” consists of all the tools to sell your work—Twitter, email newsletters, Facebook, videos, blogs, signs trailing a blimp. It’s all about raising name recognition. It’s all about … well, let me give you Laurie Pawlik-Kienlen’s succinct explanation. She’s author of the blog The Adventurous Writer. Laurie says,
“To build a strong writing platform, you need to be an entrepreneur and marketing guru with established followers.”
Arrrghh!!!
Yet, truth be told, she’s not tellin’ the worst of it.
‘Tis rumored that before an agent or editor even reads a manuscript, they Google the writer’s name to see how much name recognition the writer has already established before they buy the bloody novel or memoir!
Not a writer's platform
For ye landlubbers who have never sailed these waters, here’s another truth. Publishers, even after they buy a novel, don’t promote—with the exception of best-selling authors. (Refer to Sun Tzu’s Art of War for how strategy favors sending re-enforcements to the winners and those battling the worst of odds are left to fend for themselves.) Aye, we write the novel, spend money on independent editors to give our novel the best chance for publication, submit to agents and pray for acceptance, wait, wait, wait, and then wait some more for the agent who accepts you to submit to editors, and when accepted by an editor/publisher (and you’re hopefully not turned down by their marketing rep), you down your rum in celebration, knowing they’ll promise to promote you to hell and back, but only deliver a “product” (this is your book) that you will have to promote to hell and back if you ever want to publish again because you never will publish again if you have mediocre or bad sales.
Aarrr, and you think that couldn’t be the worst news?
In the Fresh Air interview, Gary Shteyngart says:
"You know, everyone's a writer. Nobody wants to read but everybody wants to write. These MFA programs, we can't, you know, we can't turn them away. There’s just millions of applicants. Everybody wants to be a writer. It’s this huge culture of self-expression."
An exaggeration, true. Twenty or so years ago, Natalie Goldberg said twelve-step programs produced a dearth of writers (they journal, they all have an important story to tell, they need to express themselves). Shteyngart’s statement brings us into the internet age where everyone can express themselves. (Aye, point your finger at me.)
And that increases the competition.
Add to that the A-Type personalities, extroverts, writers with no scruples, or people who capitalize on their worst traits and sins in the open confessional of the internet. (Need proof, check out “Mommy” bloggers.)
But blast the devil! What if you don’t want to express yourself in blogs/Facebook/tweets? What if you’re undermining your creativity and deep-ocean talent by swimming in the internet pool? Or what if you’re an introvert and have no desire to “share?” What if you’re Type B like me? I need me sleep, love me leisure time, have no desire to fill every bloody waking moment with action. I love to daydream. I love to ponder. I’m a slow reader and writer. If I had to write a blog every day, I’d throw myself overboard! When I work on a novel, I lose meself to uninterrupted time. To have me time broken up by all this “platform building” is enough to sink a ship. Don’t get me wrong, I know the necessity, but curse it.
Airr, if I must play the game, throw me a bone, a scrap. Make swallowing this bilge a little more magical, sexier, inspiring.
Replace this platform anchor.
If Gary Shteyngart can’t conjure up a magical, sexier, inspiring replacement for the word, how ‘bout ye pirates out there?
I do my possible, so for the time bein’, instead of sayin’ I’m “building my writer’s platform,” I’ll be saying, “I’m sailing my writer’s vessel, the Gobsmacked.” ‘Tis a little sexy and magical with an irreverent punch because Gobsmacked is how I feel about this pre-publishing marketing shite.
And now me, lovelies, back to the real work.
And a merry month of May to ya!
Captain Val
* * * * *
Ahoy, shipmates! Help me celebrate my birthday!
For the month of May, I’ll be givin’ away a signed copy of my France, a Love Story, along with a surprise: a signed copy of a book by another author who … I just keep ye guessin’.
Here’s me instructions: leave a comment on me blog, and your name goes into the end-of-the month drawin’. The more comments, the better your chances. If you subscribe by email, send your name and comment to valinparis (at) earthlink (period) net. If ye wish me to post yer comment to me Captain’s Log, tell me, and it’s done!
Bonus! Every captain needs followers and here’s how to serve yer captain. Bring a mate on board Gobsmacked by having them sign up to receive me blog. For every mate you bring aboard, your name goes into the drawing three times. I’m using the pirate’s code of honor for this. Just tell me you signed ‘em up. No cheatin’ now or it’s the gangplank!
Also from Gary’s interview:
“I think the Pacific Northwest is like the last place where books will be read in the world.”
Back again, me hearties, to finish this tale from last week. I’m enterin’ a stormy sea, so grab a gunwall and hold tight.
In my last log, I confessed to tellin’ a lie. True. Aye, I don’t hate writin’, but it’s like boarding the Publishing King’s boat—bloody exhaustin’ yet exhilaratin’. That’s not what I’m blabbin’ about his time, however. I was tellin’ ya why I didn’t take up the flag of art. More importantly, I’ll tell you how I took up the flag of writing.
All right. I left ya with motive, if you be rememberin’. Now, motive can be as simple as “Thar! A Ruling Kingdom ship, full of absconded wealth. Let’s lighten their load, right, mates?” See? Simple. I see a ship, I want that ship, I take that ship.
But motive can be like the feelin’ you get when you’re surrounded by fog, but you know somethin’s out there.
Same with the art. I couldn’t figure out what awaited, but something weren’t right.
If ye also remember, I told you scallywags ‘bout my early years in Oregon, chasin’ an artist’s life. What need be told is the tale of my beginnings, why art had me in its clutches, while something valuable lay at the bottom of sea, waitin’ for me to drag it up from deep.
The cold Atlantic state of New Hampshire was my birthplace. If you take a gander at a map, you’ll find it tucked between Maine and Vermont with a port of Portsmouth and a measly coast, the shortest of all the states, of eighteen miles. I loved the land, the bodies of water called the Lakes Region. An idyllic childhood of swimmin’ in Lake Winnisquam, pine forests surrounding the houses, offering a playground where imagination ran wild and fantasy found footing—that is ‘til ‘bout twelve years of age, when the real world locked you from that playground and rules, when broken, brought swift punishment.
Arr, we all know ‘bout being pressed into service by parents, neighbors, teachers. Art was my escape hatch. It came easy. I grabbed every line art threw my way. Painting scenery for the school plays, art editor of the high school yearbook, illustrations for the school newsletter, signs for rallies. Even at my New England Tel & Tel job, they took me off the switchboard to paint murals on the wall or create fancy presentations for the district manager. My high school paintings were showcased in the library, then a bloomin’ real art show at the school. Community members attended. I sold two pieces to faculty at the local prep school. A few pieces were even stolen. Har, har! High praise, indeed! I was perceived as having a gift.
And there lies the rub.
Aye, lads and lasses, my talent, my gift, brought recognition, reward, praise. What more motive did I need to keep my compass pointed in art’s direction? Even landlubbers love praise. But while I was bein’ rewarded for one creative venture, I was being punished for another.
Like many young ladies do, I kept a diary where I confessed my secrets and yearnin’s, my crushes and fears. I also formed a small secret club of friends who wrote and swapped short stories, fantasies, mostly, of where we wanted to sail and with whom. Our sexual exploits made it to paper when most of us had never been kissed.
Then the boot came down. First, my dad let it be known at the supper table that he’d secretly been reading my diary. Shamed by this, I metaphorically threw the diary to the fishes. And then, alas, in class one day, one club member passed a story to another girl and the teacher confiscated it, looked it over, turned red-faced, and marched it into the principal’s office. He called in the author and her parents. The club was disbanded. We never spoke of it again.
So art was praised and writing was punished. Around this time, I, the good daughter, found her pirate heart, cursed the mighty, and eventually, my rebellion led to Oregon.
You know the Oregon story. While I took art classes, while I make a living illustrating products for Bi-Mart, the writing ever so slowly surfaced. A sea chest of understanding had to be dragged up from the deep and I found the motive that kept me hooked to art. Productivity, status, and recognition were the currency of my youth, and perception ruled the rule makers. It didn’t matter if you were happy. It didn’t matter what skullduggery played out behind adult closed doors, those same rule makers, as long as no one opened their doors. To expose the hypocrisy would most probably leave you in shackles. The scheming liars who pretended to be God’s own, or privy to special consideration, would do anything to protect their wealthy ship. Poor Grace Metalious of Peyton Place fame lived in a nearby town and frequented the store where my mother worked. When she laid bare the rotten innards of our fair community, she was shown the metaphorical gangplank.
The heart of a creative soul is often cut out to save the reputation of the status quo. Why are we pirates? Because our other option is to become slaves.
So I spoke of hatin’ writing. Thar’s some truth. I could have continued sailing in sparkling artsy waters, but for me, fine lads and lasses, art wasn’t a passion. Writing is. Why? Is it the challenge? Or is it as one of me dear merry friends, me own Roll Around Heavenly Seas pirate chum, Jessica, said, “Do you think it's our potboilin' Celtic blood? The Celts are such word folks they basically won't shut up! Storytellers, all.”
Aye, Jess. I’d say that has much to do with it. But as we wordy, tall-tale tellers discover along the way, it’s a bountiful way to fill our need to express ourselves. In words we can engage all the senses. People move and act on the page. It’s oceans and landmasses of imagination that feel fully alive. We just have a passion for painting with words instead.
Well, mates, I bet ye thought I’d forgot about motive, now, didn’ ya? Nay, I’ll tell ye what sets my sail for followin’ the writing life.
Remember what I loved drawin’ most? Aye, people. For me, and my apologies to the artists out there who feel different, life drawings never came fully alive. With words I can render people with all their senses, from body odor to speech patterns, from obsessions to hidden desires, from a brush of the hair to a powerful punch in the jaw, how they act, who they fornicate with, what they prefer in good grub. What fills my heart like a wind-blown mainsail is uncovering their motives, especially when I know they’re still in the fog. Where will they go next? What will they do? How will they bloody survive? There’s satisfaction in charting their course, in giving them an adventure, and hopefully lettin’ them find their purpose or what makes them happy. Bloody, bloody exciting’! So there it is. Maybe it’s the challenge, somethin’ I never felt with my art.
Well, my fine friends, I hope your sea chest is open and full of treasure, and if not, you’re having your own adventure to discover it.
Right now, before I dry my ink and close my book, I’m lookin’ out my cabin window, and the ocean blends with a wintry horizon. A whipping wind has run cowardly from fierce sunshine while ponderous clouds aim to sink that sun. Luck on ye, ol' sun.
Wishing you a hearty good night, and bless this ol’ ship that carries us forward.
Captain Val
Coming Up!
“Sink or Swim: the Dangers of the Writing Life”
"The Fountain of Creative Ideas, or Why My Resume Wouldn't Land Me a Normal Job"
"Platform, Flatform"
... and an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven
