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Rambling kitchen sink post
Aug. 3rd, 2008 10:01 pmThis is really odd, but of the 14-15 people who responded to my poll, 95% love the rambling essays that make little sense. Reassuring that. Also a good indication that I have no clue what turns people on or off. Tonight while talking with my father, a writer, I said that I didn't think I'd ever be a published writer, with books in libraries. I wasn't sure I appealed to people enough to leap that hurdle. And wasn't certain my current novel would ever grab a publisher or agent's notice. It's not that it's not well written, I know for a fact that it is better written than Meyer's. Heck every post on my livejournal flist without exception is better written than anything Meyer's written, not to mention most of the fanfiction I've read. It's that I'm not sure it is marketable. And that in our current environment is 95% of the battle. Can you market it to the masses?
When I said all this to my Dad, he said - don't write as a vocation, write as an avocation, because you have to. Because it makes you happy. If others want to read or get something from what you've written, so much the better. But you have no control over what turns them on. You can't write for them or try to. You can't predict what they will like or won't like. All you can do is write what is inside. The man speaks from experience since fifteen years ago when he first began to seriously try to sell his work, he studied every book out there on the topic, studied the market, and queried potential readers. He attempted to write for others. And it didn't work. Rejection, after rejection, agent after agent, he even had one for a while who couldn't sell a thing. So, finally, he decided the heck with it, he would write what was inside him, self-publish it, and enjoy it. Let those who wanted to read his work, read it. Ignore those who didn't. Thick skin, he tells me, writers need to develop incredibly thick skin.
His words oddly enough echo every writing teacher I've ever had, whose told me I should write for three reasons and three only: 1) I've got something to say, 2) I feel driven to do it, and 3) part of me loves it. Not for money, not for fame, and not for prosperity -since all of the above are fleeting when and if they ever come.
Writing and storytelling is in my blood. I remember Jacob telling me that he was shocked at how many posts I put online, the length and how fast. Plus writing a book at the same time. How did I do it? How did I find the time? I made the time. I found it relaxing and the net, allowed me to peddle my work to readers...I didn't want much in return, just to be read and to read in return. What Jacob didn't know was even before the internet, I wrote, long letters to friends and family, often ten to fifteen pages, short stories, poems, books.
Perhaps it is the Irish blood, I've got a lot of it, and a good percentage of my relatives on my Dad's side of my family are frustrated writers - frustrated in that they remain unpublished. Cousins, Uncles, and of course my Dad.
Yet, in a way loving to write is a curse, because I can't bear the rejection that comes hand in hand with it. What I write is not what most people wish to read. It's not romantic. It's not a mystery with a cool detective and a tight plot. It's not horror. And it's not well,
memoir. My humor is much like my father's, dry and subtle, and most don't get it. And I think at times, my insecurities show through the cracks. I play with words, like a child might with mud, making mud pies, not like someone finishing a crossword puzzle. My favorite authors, the one's I emanate or admire tend to be stream of conscious or literary, people who play outside the lines, not those who stay inside them. And I'm stubborn. I will not cater to others. In that way too, I take after my father more than my mother I guess. I'm flexible about many things, but not my art, for some strange reason. Perhaps because I have such a low opinion of popular opinion? And always have. How can I take seriously people who consider Titantic the best film ever? Or would spend money on the Twilight series, James Patterson, and the Da Vinci Code? I don't consider myself a snob, but I guess in a way I am, at least on some issues. And I'm not afraid to throw my opinions out there - well not in writing anyway, person to person, at work? Yes. I say little there. But here? I will tell you more or less what I think. Perhaps it is because I can't elsewhere? Too much at stake.
For me, sharing my writing is a bit like walking across a high wire, without a net. You know someone will hate it. You don't know if anyone will like it. But if you don't walk across the wire, you are stuck forever on that cliff face, staring at the opposite side, wondering what it is like. While the fall is painful, it doesn't kill you, you may wish it would, but it doesn't. And even though the climb back up the cliff to that wire is a hard one, it's a necessary one, or you are stuck forever on the ground resenting those who walk across the wire above you.
I watched the film Under The Tuscan Sun tonight, which I've been told is nothing like the book in which it is based. It is a surprisingly good film. With Sandra Oh and Kate Walsh playing lesbian lovers, albeit briefly. And Diane Lane playing a woman who finds her way out of a painful divorce through the rebuilding of a villa. I found it reassuring and hopeful. A gentle simple film. The sort that makes one oddly happy.
Also watched Doctor Who's finale this weekend. I cried at the end of Journey's End - the Donna storyline touched me in a way that none of the other companions quite did.
It was so tragic. Far more so, I think than Doc Horrible or much else I've seen of late.
And it parralleled other Donna tales - Turn Left and Forest of the Dead. It seems she is doomed to forget her life of adventure and the self-esteem and confidence that came with it.
I'm not sure I like the underlying political message in these episodes regarding women and our place in society, but by the same token I'm not sure I'm supposed to. I may write a longer post exploring my thoughts on this topic at a later date if time permits.
And Californication S1, courtesy of netflix. I'm not crazy about it. Watched it mostly for David Duchovny, whom I watched X-Files mostly for as well. Duchovny is quite charming and good in it. It is described as a comedy, but I did not find it that funny, except for one scene - which was sort of absurd. Best way to describe it is - that it felt a lot like the most recent season of Nip/Tuck - without the misogyny/misanthropy, the plastic surgery scenes, and nicer characters. Don't see myself watching S2.
Time for bed and continuing a letter to my grandmother. I've decided to write to her, regardless of whether or not she can truly understand what I've written. Don't know if that is selfish or not, right now, everything feels a little selfish.
When I said all this to my Dad, he said - don't write as a vocation, write as an avocation, because you have to. Because it makes you happy. If others want to read or get something from what you've written, so much the better. But you have no control over what turns them on. You can't write for them or try to. You can't predict what they will like or won't like. All you can do is write what is inside. The man speaks from experience since fifteen years ago when he first began to seriously try to sell his work, he studied every book out there on the topic, studied the market, and queried potential readers. He attempted to write for others. And it didn't work. Rejection, after rejection, agent after agent, he even had one for a while who couldn't sell a thing. So, finally, he decided the heck with it, he would write what was inside him, self-publish it, and enjoy it. Let those who wanted to read his work, read it. Ignore those who didn't. Thick skin, he tells me, writers need to develop incredibly thick skin.
His words oddly enough echo every writing teacher I've ever had, whose told me I should write for three reasons and three only: 1) I've got something to say, 2) I feel driven to do it, and 3) part of me loves it. Not for money, not for fame, and not for prosperity -since all of the above are fleeting when and if they ever come.
Writing and storytelling is in my blood. I remember Jacob telling me that he was shocked at how many posts I put online, the length and how fast. Plus writing a book at the same time. How did I do it? How did I find the time? I made the time. I found it relaxing and the net, allowed me to peddle my work to readers...I didn't want much in return, just to be read and to read in return. What Jacob didn't know was even before the internet, I wrote, long letters to friends and family, often ten to fifteen pages, short stories, poems, books.
Perhaps it is the Irish blood, I've got a lot of it, and a good percentage of my relatives on my Dad's side of my family are frustrated writers - frustrated in that they remain unpublished. Cousins, Uncles, and of course my Dad.
Yet, in a way loving to write is a curse, because I can't bear the rejection that comes hand in hand with it. What I write is not what most people wish to read. It's not romantic. It's not a mystery with a cool detective and a tight plot. It's not horror. And it's not well,
memoir. My humor is much like my father's, dry and subtle, and most don't get it. And I think at times, my insecurities show through the cracks. I play with words, like a child might with mud, making mud pies, not like someone finishing a crossword puzzle. My favorite authors, the one's I emanate or admire tend to be stream of conscious or literary, people who play outside the lines, not those who stay inside them. And I'm stubborn. I will not cater to others. In that way too, I take after my father more than my mother I guess. I'm flexible about many things, but not my art, for some strange reason. Perhaps because I have such a low opinion of popular opinion? And always have. How can I take seriously people who consider Titantic the best film ever? Or would spend money on the Twilight series, James Patterson, and the Da Vinci Code? I don't consider myself a snob, but I guess in a way I am, at least on some issues. And I'm not afraid to throw my opinions out there - well not in writing anyway, person to person, at work? Yes. I say little there. But here? I will tell you more or less what I think. Perhaps it is because I can't elsewhere? Too much at stake.
For me, sharing my writing is a bit like walking across a high wire, without a net. You know someone will hate it. You don't know if anyone will like it. But if you don't walk across the wire, you are stuck forever on that cliff face, staring at the opposite side, wondering what it is like. While the fall is painful, it doesn't kill you, you may wish it would, but it doesn't. And even though the climb back up the cliff to that wire is a hard one, it's a necessary one, or you are stuck forever on the ground resenting those who walk across the wire above you.
I watched the film Under The Tuscan Sun tonight, which I've been told is nothing like the book in which it is based. It is a surprisingly good film. With Sandra Oh and Kate Walsh playing lesbian lovers, albeit briefly. And Diane Lane playing a woman who finds her way out of a painful divorce through the rebuilding of a villa. I found it reassuring and hopeful. A gentle simple film. The sort that makes one oddly happy.
Also watched Doctor Who's finale this weekend. I cried at the end of Journey's End - the Donna storyline touched me in a way that none of the other companions quite did.
It was so tragic. Far more so, I think than Doc Horrible or much else I've seen of late.
And it parralleled other Donna tales - Turn Left and Forest of the Dead. It seems she is doomed to forget her life of adventure and the self-esteem and confidence that came with it.
I'm not sure I like the underlying political message in these episodes regarding women and our place in society, but by the same token I'm not sure I'm supposed to. I may write a longer post exploring my thoughts on this topic at a later date if time permits.
And Californication S1, courtesy of netflix. I'm not crazy about it. Watched it mostly for David Duchovny, whom I watched X-Files mostly for as well. Duchovny is quite charming and good in it. It is described as a comedy, but I did not find it that funny, except for one scene - which was sort of absurd. Best way to describe it is - that it felt a lot like the most recent season of Nip/Tuck - without the misogyny/misanthropy, the plastic surgery scenes, and nicer characters. Don't see myself watching S2.
Time for bed and continuing a letter to my grandmother. I've decided to write to her, regardless of whether or not she can truly understand what I've written. Don't know if that is selfish or not, right now, everything feels a little selfish.
