The Things We Do For the Love of Writing

We've talked about writer's block frequently on this blog, and I've slandered my muse in such discussions more times than I can count. Now, though, the time for talk is over. It is time to fight back.

Taking into account my competitive nature and the fact that writing is such a solitary activity, I've decided to team up with my writing buddy, A.L. Brown, to push my way past the writing doldrums I've fallen into yet again.

The plan:
1) daily wordcount updates, posted via Twitter.
2) weekly summaries of the writing experience (posted on blog and linked to Twitter) coupled with a weekly wordcount total to determine the winner.
3) loser owes winner a guest post on winner's blog (or dinner, the prize may vary).
4) repeat weekly...

Let the games begin!

A Part-Time Heretic's Guide to Small-Town Living*, Part One

    It's Sunday morning. The birds are chirping, the sun is slanting in through your crooked window shade, and from somewhere outside a chorus of slamming car-doors greets your ears. You glance at the clock. It is only 10 am.

     Welcome to life in the Bible-belt. You live across the street from one of your small town's many (and I do mean many) churches. There's no helping it, really. There is almost-literally a church on every corner. And the corners without churches usually host convenience stores. If you like your Sundays of the lazy variety, this may be a problem for you. What you need is a strategy, and someone experienced to help you create that strategy.

     You are in luck.

     I will be your tour guide to life on these pot-hole ridden streets. I'm a long time resident, you see.

     Consider me the slightly nasal voice of reason. By the time we're through, you may want to look into relocating--possibly to one of those nice locations they advertise, quite conveniently, on the sides of U-haul trucks.

     But we should really get started. Time is of the essence, because in small towns everything shuts down early on Sundays--well, everything except Walmart.

     Before the day is over, you will know everything you need to know to make it in this town--especially if you are a fast learner and take my first piece of advice to heart:

Booze:

     In the Bible-belt, dry counties are the rule rather than the exception. If you want to stay sane, you should develop a strategy for the procurement and maintenance of a booze stash. Practically speaking, this means that you should do your "grocery" shopping before Sundays roll around. Because, although you can now purchase alcohol in restaurants and bars on the Lord's day, you cannot purchase it and take it home.

     You probably feel perplexed, if not slightly annoyed and disgusted at this fact. It has often flummoxed me as well. It would seem that city ordinance encourages public drunkenness to an unsettling degree. Why prevent people from drinking in their homes? Why force them to make a spectacle of themselves while they attempt to drown their sorrows and keep their sanity? The answer is elusive; that this blue law is allowed to persist is beyond me--although I suspect that the religious figures and upstanding citizens responsible for it must be firm believers in the doctrine of public confession of sins...

     It may have occurred to you that this ordinance wreaks havoc on a national pastime that smalltowners hold in deep reverence: Sunday night football. If you, like so many of your new neighbors and fellow citizens, are a football lover, the strategy I've suggested is vital to your happiness in this small town. Superbowl Sunday, after all, is only a shell of a celebration without a nice, cold brew in hand.

Entertainment:

     I hope you did not forget your appetite when you moved to this booming metropolis. From here on out, your primary form of entertainment will consist of eating-out or drinking. That's right, other than a few events (mostly musical in nature), this small town offers good, clean, wholesome fun in an edible form.

     If you happen to be an innovator, then you may not feel the absence of typical entertainment venues (such as a movie theater, a bowling alley, a skating rink, or even a bookstore) so drastically. This is because you will be too busy entertaining yourself at the expense of your neighbors and fellow citizens.

     If you are not an innovator, I suggest that you learn how to entertain yourself as quickly as possible. I'll give some suggestions as to where you might start:

• Develop your eccentricities. A good friend of mine recently began channeling her witch-like inclinations--cackling, reading musty tomes aloud, lighting thousands of candles, chanting to the moon, and more cackling--in order to make her life a better place and scare away some of the less reputable elements of small town society--thieves, drug-dealers, neighborhood busybodies, and junkies.

• Invent your own logic. Instead of groaning about the mundane nature of your new reality, you can take that reality and make it interesting. That cable van that's been outside of your neighbor's house all morning? The driver is really an FBI agent. See, isn't that better?

• Mess with people's heads. Instead of responding politely, honestly, and predictably to everyday conversation, make things up. Become a storyteller. Sure, you may lose a stodgy friend or two, but the people who still like you afterward will be the more...colorful...type.

Today's small town tour is now complete. Check back next week, same time and same place, for  the next leg of the tour...

*Disclaimer: some advice contained herein may be a selfish attempt to drive away new residents so that the small town can remain small. It may or may not be funded by the city planners. Lawyers may or may not have advised this disclaimer.

That Time Muse Suckerpunched Willpower

There's this war in creative writing. It's kind of like the Hundred Years' War, except longer. Centuries of armies have massed around two primary camps: Muse and Willpower. The constituents of Muse think that beautiful, meaningful writing can only come through inspiration. Willpower's minions, on the other hand, claim that NO inspiration is required. To heck with the fickle whims of Muse.

Me, I fall somewhere in the middle of the two camps, which is probably why I get kicked from both sides, but that is another blog post. I fall somewhere in the middle for one important reason: I know a secret. Muse (being a fickle girl who may or may not like sparkly things) can be bribed.

My Muse happens to like coffee and traveling and walking through nature like a modern day Thoreau (I'll pass on that tasty woodchuck though, buddy. I'd rather have an Elk burger). My Muse likes antique typewriters that can be converted into USB compatible writing machines. My Muse likes sarcastic t-shirts and many different kinds of excellent music (I've been on a jazzy, bluesy kick, lately). My Muse likes scheming.

Bribing my Muse doesn't mean I'm dependant on some sort of mythical, faerie dust and Disney smiles *inspiration* (said in a Spongebob voice). It just means I'm bringing my full arsenal of capability to the table--or, more appropriately, the writing desk. It means I'm not forcing myself to slog through my writing day like it is some kind of horrible task. I'm interested and dedicated. I'm working and having fun.

This is starting to sound disturbingly like a personal ad for my Muse. I think she may be sitting on top of my head like Remi in Ratatouille, pulling my hair to control what I type...

So. In the interest of putting my Muse back in her place, let me tell you a story. A story about that time Muse suckerpunched Willpower (and Willpower put Nair in her shampoo bottle). But first, a little bit of background. My Muse is one of nine beautiful women (supposedly goddesses, but I think the Greeks were just suckers for pretty women). Actually, I think I'm the creative only child of two Muses, who randomly trade custody of me: Calliope and Clio. Calliope is the muse of song. Clio is the muse of history, i.e. the scroll or writing. In all honesty, Calliope is not the subject of this story--she's a pretty reliable Muse as muses go, and she really has nothing to do with Willpower, because I have no delusions of becomig a professional songwriter and am happy to write songs infrequently as inspiration hits.

Now, there's another famous lady throughout Western history, and she is closely tied with success (creative or otherwise). Her name is Lady Fortune (or Lady Luck to all you modern Americans). She's an elusive one and, despite the praises that have been sung to her, she is bald. Yep. You got it. BALD. I think it's because all of the down-on-their-luck people in SHakespeare's day thought you had to grab her BY THE HAIR to catch her.

Anyway. Back to my Muse. One day, she decided to trick Willpower into thinking they could be partners. You know, in the cahoots and rendezvouses (is that a word?) kissy-kissy way. Then, when she convinced Willpower to abandon me in my time of need (proibably while I was working on a term paper) and once he did, she locked him in a cage and punched him in the stomach before returning to taunt me with ridiculous ideas and impractical plot twists.

A few days later, Willpower escaped (possibly because I gave him coffee and a donut with a metal file inside [it was a long john, ok, not a round donut! Don't be so critical]). As I've already noted, Willpower's next move was to put Nair in my Muse's shampoo.

Let's just say she looks a lot like Lady Fortune, these days.

What Ho? A Double Standard in the Literary World?

Sometimes, while I'm wandering along the various fields of the literary world (I'm currently in one full of thistles, but that is beside the point), I stumble over a big, fat incongruity. This week, it's an incongruity directly related to my own writing efforts:

WHY do people snicker if I tell them I'm writing an Urban Fantasy with elements of crime fiction, like mythical stories are sooo lowbrow, but still consider things like Le Morte D'Arthur and The Faerie Queen to be high brow, glorious literary productions? Why is a mystery novel "sure to make you rich" but not sure to bring you the literary acclaim that, say, a historical/memoir/women's fiction "literary" novel will? Why do I feel embarrassed to admit that I'm a "genre" writer?

On a surface level, it's all about money. Popular literature is "lowbrow" because it is easily accessible to all kinds of people. Readers do not have to have a master's degree or a PhD to unerstand the underlying ideas and themes that shape the novel and make it significant. And, because popular literature is neither rare nor hard to "get" in either sense of the word, there are no obvious bragging rights (cultural capital--the ability to value yourself above other people because you are able to access and "understand" rare and highly valued art). In this light, one could claim that there are NO SOCIAL STATUS BENEFITS TO BE GAINED BY READING GENRE FICTION.

Of course, one would be wrong. But one could say such a thing, and be accurate to the social consesus on the subject.

Have you ever noticed that popular art can, and often does, become "classic"? Bugs Bunny, Abbot and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, the Three Stooges, Shakespeare (oh yeah, he was a popular artist back in the day), and FilM Noir are all notable examples. Although popular art becomes high brow art as it becomes less and less accessible (as it ages and generations of people who don't use the same cultural cues [things like slang, symbol]), thus tending to validate the monetary system of valuing art, that isn't entirely why it turns into highbrow art.

If popular art can BECOME high brow art, then such art cannot be, for all intents and purposes, VOID of any social/cultural value, can it?

Okay. I will climb off my giant soapbox and go work on my lowbrow fiction now. Thankyouverymuch.

It's Not Simply Revision, It's Radical Renovation

I've recently (but not so very recently) stumbled across two very interesting terms: upcycling and re-purposing. Now, these terms aren't new--in fact, they're just really specific terms for recycling via craftiness--but they are much better at expressing something that should be a large part of a writer's day-to-day life.

As an English instructor, I come across some very skewed conceptions of "revision" on a frequent basis. Most people seem to think that "revision" is the act of editing: spell check, grammar check, punctuation check, and maybe a quick rampage through the thesaurus for good measure.

I'm sorry to burst your collective bubbles, but that's not really the case.

Revision is the radical renovation of something that exists--it's like turning your dark, tiny, frumpy bathroom into a wonder rivaling an ancient Greek temple, complete with beautifully tiled floors and a jacuzzi. In that respect, writing itself is an act of revision--it is the manipulation of an existing thought or series of thoughts, an addition or change to any pre-exisiting existing body of work on the subject, the shift from "light-bulb!" to "tangible-product!"

I say all of this because I finally acknowledged the nagging voice in the back of my head, demanding a real revision of my work in progress (WIP). That little voice has been dissatisfied with my protagonist for quite some time, it's been suggesting that I nix her because the real story I am trying to tell revolves around two of the secondary characters.

In short, I'm not merely "revising" (editing) my story, I'm purposing my story. The same fibers are being used, and even though it looks completely different, it's more or less the same book, but in the end, it will be a messenger-bag instead of a suit coat.

The Importance of Being Awkward

Long, long ago, my grandpa told me not to let people call me a genius. I never understood why being called a genius was such a bad thing. I like to study, and being noted for my smarts is much better than being termed "dummy," isn't it?

It's taken years, but I think I might have figured it out. If naming something is tantamount to defining it, deciding what its value is, then grandpa's advice makes some sense. I don't want to be simply smart. I don't want to be boxed in by the expectations that accompany the label "genius"--in fact, I have a propensity for using words like "um" and "howdy" when I speak, not to mention my frequent use of contractions. Besides, I can't do rocket science or advanced math, so how much of a genius could I possibly be?

Ironically, while I've successfully evaded the "genius" label (for the most part, maybe, certain individuals insist on calling me one--probably because it makes them feel less defeated when I beat their pants at scrabble. They can justify their loss by my prowess--if I was "normal," they would have beat me [ha]) I seem to have stumbled head-on into another one: awkward.

I'm not exactly sure how small talk works. The other day, when somebody asked me how I was doing, I told them "no," because I was still stuck in  another conversation and the correct answer ("great, how are you?")  evaded me. I then had to explain myself, with further awkwardness. Oh, the tangled webs awkward people weave, when they first, awkwardly begin to speak.

Still and all, I'm pretty sure this term is a distortion, an odd return of a certain, specific label that has been repressed (ehem, "genius"). Isn't awkwardness--social awkwardness--a sign of genius? Answer honestly. Don't tell me you've never seen Shelden on Big Bang Theory.

Maybe my nerdy, bookwormy side is just something that shouldn't be suppressed. I can't avoid it. It must be expressed. So, FYI, If I'm wearing a badge that says "genius" next time you see me, it may not be a sign of egomania. I may be advertising my social awkwardness.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Procrastination

Occasionally, I get inspired to write.

Inspiration is problematic because what it really consists of is my brain deciding that it doesn't want to study, or grade another stack of papers, or make a paper-clip chain and string it around my office. It consists of my brain seeing some mediocre rehashing of a story that's been done to death (Snow White, anyone?) and rebelling against the fact that my less obviously unoriginal stories are still not quite ready to be thrown out into the world (they also lack sparkly vampires, so perhaps the world is not quite ready for my stories, either). Mostly, it consists of me scribbling madly on scraps of paper, only to realize that's I've turned my story upside down and inside out, and I don't have time to put it back together before class.

Yep. You've got it: inspiration acts a lot like procrastination.

But, maybe procrastination is all in the eye of the beholder. Am I procrastinating by working on my novel, or am I procrastinating working on my novel by studying and going to work?  (I promise I'm not being [completely] facetious. I know what my priorities are: I have to have money to feed my cat or she might kill me in my sleep). I'm not sure what it's called when your cat kills you--maybe convenient-human-who-feeds-me-icide. Whatever it's called, it sounds unpleasant.

And you thought I was going to talk about Facebook, didn't you?