Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Your Baby Is Ugly

This time last week, I was in the home stretch of the last book in a four-book series. (I actually do have to go back and do the second book now, but let's not dwell on this little detail, I'm already going to have 'Nam flashbacks by the time that damned thing is finished.) There were maybe about twenty thousand words left in the final and penultimate book. Every gun that I had set out on the mantle was either going off or getting a little asterisk drawn next to it so that I could go back and scrub it out as necessary, the themes were coming together, and I was inflicting carnage and property damage in the widest possible circle. That's usually my writing heaven.

I hate the damned thing. It's been eating my life for the past six months. (Longer than that if we're going to be perfectly honest, since I wrote the first book more than two years ago and the idea first blipped into my mind while I was still in high school.) At this point, all that I can see are the plot holes, the clunky places in the dialogue, the points where my heroine stops being compellingly cranky and just becomes Grade-A Unlikeable. I have three longhand pages of revision notes scrawled out already, and frankly I wanted to pitch the whole thing into the floor at several points before it was done. I was ready to call it a blessing that I only wasted six months on this nightmare rather than six years, or worse, that I didn't go entirely insane and release it to the public so that everyone could point and laugh at the flaws that are so obvious to me. Best to just cut my losses now.

With my finger hovering over the 'delete' key, I regained my senses to call Audrey first. (As a side note, that's a name that you're going to see a lot of if you follow this blog for any length of time. She's not only my best friend and Ideal Reader, she's the brilliant graphic designer, photographer, and all around amazing artist who will be doing at least three of my covers. If they come out fantastic, then it's all due to her genius. If they turn out crap, then it's because she tried to warn me about something and my stupid face wouldn't listen.) I told her that I hated every single word I had written and wanted to hurl it into the trash before anyone else realized the crimes that I had committed against the English language.

Audrey listened very carefully until I was finished, and then she told me two very important things. First, she threatened to kick my ass. This is not a threat to be tossed aside lightly. I've known Audrey for a long time, and she fights like a mongoose.

Disturbingly plausible threats of physical violence aside, though, Audrey had a further point. While I was busy assessing potential hiding places and wondering how much it would strain our friendship if I had to mace her, Audrey went on, "This is like being in the ninth month of pregnancy. You stop caring if it chews through its own umbilical cord so long as it gets out of you. Also, have you ever seen a newborn baby? They look like someone beat the hell out of a space alien before dipping it in grape jelly. You have to scrub at them before they're cute."

This drew me short. (Okay, this and Audrey reminding me that she knows what my car looks like and isn't afraid of breaking a few laws, so it's not likely that I could get very far even if I did try to run.) Most pieces of writing advice that I've seen warns you that at some point you're going to have to be a bad parent and start whacking the limbs off of your darlings so that they'll be pretty to other people rather than just to you. (One wonders how many children of authors wander across these How-Tos and wind up inadvertently scarred for life.) You have to be willing to toss aside all emotional attachment to your creation and start mutilating the hell out of it in the name of artistic integrity and modest profit.

This is undoubtedly good advice—later. Let it start creeping into your head too soon, though, and the joy falls out of the writing, leaving behind, gasp and horror, work. Now, I am ordinarily all for popping the balloon that is that "muse" nonsense. Writing is work. It's awesome work, and there is absolutely nothing else that I would rather be doing with my life, but it's still work. Treat it as such, commit to putting words on the page even when little fairies aren't sprinkling unicorn dander all over you, and eventually a book will be born.

But at the same time, you have to be willing to love your projects even for their flaws, 'cause God knows you're a lunatic if you're playing this gig for the money. I have about three weeks left before I'm finished with all the rough drafts in this series. I'm going to do my very best to disconnect my editor-brain, remember why I loved the idea in the first place, and just groove on it. If I'm not making money, I might as well be having fun.

Come fall, though, I'm going after those mofos with a scalpel.

Monday, May 23, 2011

The Content Conundrum

Here's the issue with being an indie writer and beginning blogger: on the one hand, this isn't a personal journal. I have one of those in a different space and under a different name, and it serves its purpose quite well. While my friends might not actually care about what my cat has done that day, the friendship code means that they'll at least pretend convincingly.

I have no right or reason to expect random strangers on the internet to care about what my cat has done that day. (Even if I am starting to suspect that my neighbors are somehow slipping her cocaine through the vents. Don't look at me like that, it's entirely plausible.) On the other hand, on a truly professional writing blog, you expect that the bulk of the content would be focused on, well, writing, would you not? In that case, it would be fairly helpful if I actually had a book or two out that was holding its own before I start holding forth. Without sales to encourage people to at least pretend, most talk about writing just isn't interesting. Individual writing projects are only interesting to the people who are thigh-deep in them, and maybe one or two close buddies.

I'm a good friend. I make certain that my pals are well-plied with alcohol before I begin either whining or squeeing about my latest baby. One, if a drunk person can manage to spot your plot holes, then it's probably a wise idea to rock back onto your heels and ponder a bit before moving forward. In the same vein, if I can keep a drunk person's attention for more than five minutes, then I'm probably at least flailing in the right direction. Besides, I've bought them drinks. People are far less likely to go toddling in the other direction when they owe you a round.

Alas, I cannot send beer through the internet to you all. I suspect that I would get many more hits on this blog if I could. Expect this space to be a mix of book reviews, the nuts and bolts aspects of writing that I can chatter about without being too ridiculous, and, yeah, the occasional dash of self-promotion. (I'm keeping the utterly pointless posts from March and April as they are, because the learning curve amuses me.) Being a bit needy by nature, every once in a while I have been known to turn barrel rolls for applause.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Why We Fight Write

Didn't you always hate it when you were little and the new kid in class, and the teacher would make you stand up in front of everyone so that you could tell them about yourself? There are very few ways of sticking that landing; mostly you come across as a raging tool.

I'm a writer. I would like to be an author, and so, with folks like JA Konrath, Amanda Hocking, and Zoe Winters leading by example, I'm trying to use self-publishing to make that happen. I've never submitted more than a short story to a traditional publishing outlet. I have never sought an agent, crafted a synopsis, or written a query letter. Indie or self-publishing is not a last resort for me, it's my first choice.

So just what the hell am I thinking? Don't I know that I'm permanently hamstringing a career before it even gets started? That indie publishing is only for people who aren't good enough to find homes with traditional houses? Aren't I daunted by all that I'm going to have to do?

Here's the thing: I've been writing ever since I learned how to hold a pen. (Even if I do tend to cling to it like a drunken simian.) I've probably logged at least five million words over the past twelve or thirteen years. Two and a half million of those have been since 2006, which was the first year that I started keeping official count. In all of that time and throughout all of those books, I have produced a grand total of two (or a cumulative 130K words) that I could look at six months later and go, "You know, I think that this one just might have some legs." I wasn't ready before, and I knew it. It was only at the beginning of 2011 that I thought I had something worth querying. Then three things happened.

First, Amanda Hocking went viral. I will be completely blunt with you: prior to that, I thought very little of e-books, in every sense of the phrase. I had a few saved to my computer from specialty e-publishers, mostly in order to support my friends, but the idea of spending $9.99 on an electronic book that could be blipped away from my hard drive at any time, when I could have a real book in my hot little hands for the same amount or even less seemed ridiculous to me. (I know, I know. A paper book can be just as easily destroyed by physical disaster as an e-book can by a digital one. I'm not saying my thesis had all of its legs under it.) Even as I was having to buy another bookcase for roughly the same amount as a Kindle just so that I would be able to see my dining room table again, I couldn't fathom spending over one hundred bucks for the privilege of reading my own damned books. Discovering just how many books were out there for $2.99—excellent, worthy books—or less was nothing short of revelatory. I didn’t even realize that this market existed.

The second thing that happened was that an acquaintance of mine who has been having near-misses with publishing deals for years was ultimately dropped by her agent. None of the editors that her agent shopped the book to had any complaints about its quality. Their issue was that my acquaintance was writing urban fantasy 1) about a dude, who 2) is funny, and 3) has sex. In short, she's not writing Twilight. There's a joke about the publishing industry which has an accountant innocently asking an editor why don't solely publish the bestsellers, the punchline being that you can't truly tell beforehand which books are going to be bestsellers and which will not.

Well, you can certainly increase your odds by narrowing what you will publish until it mirrors every bestseller out there, can't you? Leaving a lot of good authors and good books with nowhere to go.

And, yes, my acquaintance is going to self-publish, and you can bet your ass that I'm going to review here just as soon as it's available.

Thirdly influencing my decision was a dust-up in some of the other spheres that I frequent over e-book piracy and its effect on publishing and authors in general, the details of which I am not going to go into here. (Okay, I'm half a liar, because I'm going to dip in a toe: if you're going to pirate, then pirate. I certainly can't stop you. But have the intestinal fortitude to acknowledge it for what it is rather than trying to torque it into an issue of those mean, privileged writers trying to oppress you with their aspirations of health insurance.) This is indirectly related to self-publishing in that a book sold for $.99 or $2.99 is a less attractive pirating option than one sold for $9.99, given the risk of viruses and malware, and that I'm hurt a lot less by piracy when I'm making $2.09 per book than when I'm making $.65.

Now. I will admit that I still have a couple of anxieties in going at it all alone like this, namely in the fact that, well, I am going to be all alone. There is no one to blame but me, myself, and I if I don't sell, and no one to shoulder the costs of building the website, designing the cover, etc., save for that aforementioned dear little trio. However. I have heard so many horror stories from the conventional publishing world centering around authors who had to all but go to war in order to get cover art featuring people of the same ethnicity as the book's protagonists, of having to do all of the promotion from their own pockets, of publishers attempting to drum them out of business because they questioned homophobic editing practices, that I can't help but see a whole lot of opportunity here and very little in the way of a downside.

Well, okay. Except for the possibility of conspicuous failure and widespread public mocking. I suppose that that's a pretty big downside. Meeble. Let's not think about that, shall we? I'm sticking myself to a deadline: I will have a fully functional website with at least one book for sale on it by the end of October at the very latest. Quailing in the corner never got anyone anywhere.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

The Traitorous Confessions of a Former DC Fangirl

I've had a pretty bad week, ladies and gents, for reasons that aren't particularly relevant on what I am still determined shall be a professional blog. (IT WILL, DAMN IT.) What could possibly be a better distraction for me than a couple of margaritas, some friends, and a Big Dumb Fun Movie? Especially when it's wearing a red cape and a bratty grin that ought to require a license?

That's right. I went to see Thor, and I loved the hell out of it. Why the subject line, you ask? See, I'm a DC girl, always have been and until very recently thought that I always would be. I once wrote a song about Frank Miller. (I can't remember the lyrics now, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say that they probably involved whores.) I can write you a ten-page paper comparing and contrasting various Supermans (Supermen?) without even cracking a book. (Tom Welling is awesome, haters to the left.) I might be able to rattle off a half-dozen Marvel characters if I concentrate hard and am allowed to count the X-Men as individuals rather than a unit, but more and more I've come to look forward to the newest Marvel superhero extravaganza while dreading DC's next effort. There are three reasons for this.

Narrative cohesion. The same way that a book picks up speed in its final chapters, Marvel is pushing towards one massive (if probably not final, because no one is walking away from this franchise while there's still profit to be made) event in The Avengers. Each movie is keeps this in mind, makes references to others in the franchise, and shares a visual style. I can't imagine Nolan's Gotham existing in the same universe as Singer's Metropolis, let alone characters crossing over. Apparently, the DC folks can't imagine it, either, if Supes is now also going to be headed by Nolan, but, well… let's say that my hopes when it comes to the next Superman have been steadily diminishing.

Fun. Thor was a blast to watch in large part because everyone involved was clearly having the time of their lives and realized that "deep" (and believe it or not, the flick has its moments) doesn't have to mean "unremittingly grim." Marvel superhero movies as a whole seem to get this, actually, from the quick dialogue to the bright filters used in filming. I'm still holding out hope for The Green Lantern, but that's mostly because Ryan Reynolds can't not be a smartass. He does not understand how. I didn't realize what an adorable dork Brandon Routh once until I stumbled across his Funny or Die videos. Come on, DC. To quote one of your most memorable characters: why so serious?

And finally, Marvel has started to embrace a fact that DC can't quite seem to grasp: girls like superheroes, too. It's at its most blatant thus far in Thor, which has several moments of female gaze seeded throughout, and it also looks as if it's also going to play a role in Captain America. (The trailer here features a shot of the female lead struggling very hard not to grab at Chris Evans's pecs. You and me both, sister.) Looking back, while Thor is the most explicitly lady-friendly Marvel venture to date, none of their offerings are unfriendly, either. Shots of Pepper's cleavage are matched with Tony selling copious tickets to the gun show. Meanwhile (and apologies to the fanboys and fangirls that this is going to piss off, but it's true), Chris Nolan has never met a female lead that he couldn't fridge and thinks that Batgirl is so ridiculous (while dressing up as a giant flying rat rather than getting a Celexa prescription happens every day) that he'll invent a son for Commissioner Gordon to bond with rather than showing Barbara's civilian self. Zack Snyder made certain that the climactic moment of heroism in Sucker Punch involved submitting to a gang rape. If Lois Lane makes it out of the next Superman movie alive, without being sexually assaulted, and also without a brand-new set of Kryptonite nipple piercings? I'm going to be over the moon. Comics and comics fandom have long been spaces where male characters overwhelmingly hold sway. (Hey, I'm working on it!) Marvel, however, has realized that half the human race is female and that they can make more money by appealing across genders. Quite apart from making me all fuzzy inside, that's just good business sense, and I wish them all the luck in the world.

Besides, Thor's just a damned good movie. It's funny, it's well-acted by charismatic leads, and seriously, Mr. Hemsworth, it has to be said: yowza.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

This just in: educators aren't put away in packing peanuts whenever they're not around your kids.

English teacher writes racy novels, parents with nothing better to do lose their minds.

Smart Bitches, Trashy Books is predictably awesome.

I agree with SB, TB: for once, it's worth it to read the comments on a news article.  Wow, a grown-ass woman writes about, meaning that she thinks about, sex.  She doesn't bring it into the school.  She doesn't promote it to minors.  (However much I think that it's willful obtuseness not to realize that teenagers think about sex.)  If you're going to excoriate her for this, then you have to do the exact same for every single biological parent with a student attending that school. They're not just thinking about sex, they're giving tangible proof that they've had it.

There are also things to be said when it comes to why a woman writing about sex is being deviant, but if a man were to write about violence he would be an exalted local author.  However, others have said them better, so for now I won't.  What I will do is choke down my reaction to Mays' fairly ridiculous Kindle prices and give the lady some business.

Thoughts on Scream 4

In which I had to fight very hard with myself not to yell "[Expletive] YEAH FINAL GIRLS!" over and over again.