Last night, I shared the first three chapters - the 'new' chapters of 'Blue' - with a writer friend. She applauded the changes. I had decided to go back and, not start over, but look at it with my own gut and my Muse's input and get rid of some of the 'stuff' that I put in as suggested by others. I, too, feel it's clearer.
I know we're supposed to have an editor and/or a critiquer going over our writing, to help find errors in content and fluidity, and also to make sure the characters are consistent and the arc flows. But putting my work into someone else's hands has not resulted in work that is true to me. Somewhere along the way, we have to take in and asses what others offer, but then be sure it is still our own work.
With these thoughts in mind, I have offered up the first three chapters of 'Blue' to my critique group (if anyone shows up). I told them the comments by the last 'professional' critiquer and asked them if they felt the same. It will be interesting - getting their input. I trust them.
As for being critiqued by professionals, I think I have paid my last dollar and given my last MS to a 'professional' critiquer. I'm not sure I am receiving good advise.
Life is convoluted.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Saving Myself
It's hard to do, but I am not about to throw in the towel. Too painful. And then what do I do? Stay in bed, hiding under the covers? No. I don't want that. Other alternatives do not present themselves well.
Sometimes, being a writer, feels like I am some Dickensonian character, holed up in a cobweb infested dining room waiting for my true love to return. (Snicker - I'm sure the Muse would like that image.) I can't fester under the covers; I can't hide in my office; I can't not write.
Thankfully, I have support. Friends who cherish me, don't push me too hard, cajole now and again, and basically are there in case I need to scream. I treasure them. I try to keep them near. When they haven't heard from me in awhile, they know I'm in the doldrums and they contact me and I get better.
In the little writers' group that I belong to, we lost a charter member. His job took him elsewhere. We applauded his success and began, in hiding, to gnaw at our fingernails. This man was the back bone of the group. He was committed to his writing and to each one of the other members. There wasn't a jealous bone in his body. He gave comments with kindness. But he read every presented MS twice or more, he made gentle, but succinct comments, he had a quick mind and used it to evaluate what we presented.
With this man gone, we knew we had to step up. The group committed to be better critiquers. But with all groups, attendance fluctuated, and feelings of new members were hurt. I had blasted medical issues and stayed away while healing. At times, there were only two members at the meetings compared to almost twenty in the spring. Rumblings began. Discontent grew. Talk of disbandment flew.
I wrote to the group, from my new-found resilience, and reminded them of other groups in the area - stifling, jealous people with no imagination and no ilk for a genre other than their own. People who love to hear themselves talk at the expense of the MS presenter. People who know only how to cut and not applaud, remonstrate and not cajole, criticize with no help offered. Oh, it was horrid being part of these groups.
Thankfully, I found my new little group in 2009. A hodgepodge of writer styles and genres, one even a playwright. It was difficult, at first, to critique other genres that I wasn't familiar nor comfortable with, but I persevered. The members were kind during my fledgling days. They are still kind.
But - they have lost their focus. I reminded them of their prior accomplishments, bringing up tidbits from the stories they presented in the past and reminding them how much they opened my eyes to worlds I'd not known before. I reminded them of how they helped me and how I have grown from their critiques.
Thankfully, for once I inspired and the group is meeting again this Saturday. I don't know how many will be there or for how long, but I'm grateful the group is giving themselves another chance.
Writing is difficult and lonely work. If I can find others who share my joy and my sorrows, I am better for it and my writing is, too.
Life is saving me (and you.)
Sometimes, being a writer, feels like I am some Dickensonian character, holed up in a cobweb infested dining room waiting for my true love to return. (Snicker - I'm sure the Muse would like that image.) I can't fester under the covers; I can't hide in my office; I can't not write.
Thankfully, I have support. Friends who cherish me, don't push me too hard, cajole now and again, and basically are there in case I need to scream. I treasure them. I try to keep them near. When they haven't heard from me in awhile, they know I'm in the doldrums and they contact me and I get better.
In the little writers' group that I belong to, we lost a charter member. His job took him elsewhere. We applauded his success and began, in hiding, to gnaw at our fingernails. This man was the back bone of the group. He was committed to his writing and to each one of the other members. There wasn't a jealous bone in his body. He gave comments with kindness. But he read every presented MS twice or more, he made gentle, but succinct comments, he had a quick mind and used it to evaluate what we presented.
With this man gone, we knew we had to step up. The group committed to be better critiquers. But with all groups, attendance fluctuated, and feelings of new members were hurt. I had blasted medical issues and stayed away while healing. At times, there were only two members at the meetings compared to almost twenty in the spring. Rumblings began. Discontent grew. Talk of disbandment flew.
I wrote to the group, from my new-found resilience, and reminded them of other groups in the area - stifling, jealous people with no imagination and no ilk for a genre other than their own. People who love to hear themselves talk at the expense of the MS presenter. People who know only how to cut and not applaud, remonstrate and not cajole, criticize with no help offered. Oh, it was horrid being part of these groups.
Thankfully, I found my new little group in 2009. A hodgepodge of writer styles and genres, one even a playwright. It was difficult, at first, to critique other genres that I wasn't familiar nor comfortable with, but I persevered. The members were kind during my fledgling days. They are still kind.
But - they have lost their focus. I reminded them of their prior accomplishments, bringing up tidbits from the stories they presented in the past and reminding them how much they opened my eyes to worlds I'd not known before. I reminded them of how they helped me and how I have grown from their critiques.
Thankfully, for once I inspired and the group is meeting again this Saturday. I don't know how many will be there or for how long, but I'm grateful the group is giving themselves another chance.
Writing is difficult and lonely work. If I can find others who share my joy and my sorrows, I am better for it and my writing is, too.
Life is saving me (and you.)
Monday, November 4, 2013
Tools
My kitchen was not stocked with enough tools. I made-do. If I needed one thing, I'd try to figure out how to use another in its place. We were on a very tight budget. I did well enough in the kitchen, but I began to think that if I had the right tools I could really do some fun food stuff.
The same is true with writing. I've got to have the basics (cup, tsp, and tbs measurers, colanders, pots and pans with well fitting tops. A grater.) A thesaurus, a dictionary, a grammar book, good writing magazines.
Once I've got those, and mastered them, then it's time for the extras. The conferences, the critique groups, the editor, the writing friends.
A friend shared a book with me recently. It's pretty darn good. Jennifer has input from about thirty different contributors. This is totally the business side of writing, much like the oven side of cooking.
The Business of Writing by Jennifer Lyons. http://www.amazon.com/The-Business-Writing-Professional-Publishers/dp/158115917X
There is so much information to be had/found, but it must be used like salt. With care. Otherwise, the food will be unpalatable. My query letter will be garbage. My story arc will be flat.
Ah! This writing thing is no easy task. Sometimes, it doesn't even feel worth the struggle. And yet, when a phrase like 'his nose was like a red pincushion' comes to me, I get giddy with delight. Words are awesome, entrancing, uplifting, freeing.
Back to Ch. 3 of 'Blue' now. Keep writing and reading and learning and growing and having fun!
Life is hysterical.
The same is true with writing. I've got to have the basics (cup, tsp, and tbs measurers, colanders, pots and pans with well fitting tops. A grater.) A thesaurus, a dictionary, a grammar book, good writing magazines.
Once I've got those, and mastered them, then it's time for the extras. The conferences, the critique groups, the editor, the writing friends.
A friend shared a book with me recently. It's pretty darn good. Jennifer has input from about thirty different contributors. This is totally the business side of writing, much like the oven side of cooking.
The Business of Writing by Jennifer Lyons. http://www.amazon.com/The-Business-Writing-Professional-Publishers/dp/158115917X
There is so much information to be had/found, but it must be used like salt. With care. Otherwise, the food will be unpalatable. My query letter will be garbage. My story arc will be flat.
Ah! This writing thing is no easy task. Sometimes, it doesn't even feel worth the struggle. And yet, when a phrase like 'his nose was like a red pincushion' comes to me, I get giddy with delight. Words are awesome, entrancing, uplifting, freeing.
Back to Ch. 3 of 'Blue' now. Keep writing and reading and learning and growing and having fun!
Life is hysterical.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Change of Time
I'm waiting for the time when I can get my job done. The site I use has strict time censors and I have to wait until it's 'my' time to post. Just another five or so minutes. I'm exhausted, but not as bad as I usually am. Thank the powers above. Still, I want to get the job done and sneak into bed. :)
I met with friends this afternoon, writer friends, and we spent a good two plus hours chatting. it was nice. At the end of the session, I showed them the critique from the last conference.
Sometimes, I get too close to things and I don't notice the obvious. My friend read the first line and said, 'This woman can't write. Where are her grammar skills?'
And she was right. The first sentence said, 'love the conceit.' Well, I knew she meant concept, but it doesn't matter. She didn't write concept, she wrote conceit. The grammar and sentence structure went down from there. As my friend pointed out mistake after mistake in the critiquer's writing, I realized that what my editor had said was true. This woman, two years ago, was a midwife. Now she's in publishing and supposed to be taken seriously?
My self-esteem grew in leaps. Except for the fact that I am still amazed at the brains of the women I associate with. They see things that escape me. Their eyes are open. Now I'm not saying I'm a dimwit. I have my strengths, too. But when I see such intelligence around me, I sway to it. I feel like I'm in a dance of sorts, the force of the universe swirling me about. I drink in their intelligence and rejoice that I am party to such friends.
I try, on a daily basis, to keep my eyes open to the nuances of people's speech patterns and body language. I try to be open to nature, to see the beauty and the absurdity in it. The spectacular along with the mundane. I fail constantly, but I keep trying.
I want to talk my daughter into coming with me to a breakfast with the birds event tomorrow morning. She's not really into that, but I want my granddaughter to be part of it. The child is amazing and I want to keep her vistas open wide so that her part of the essence of the universe shines. Ah, what am I saying. She already shines. She wrote a book, I don't remember if I said anything here, about how she broke her arm. The title is: 'The real story of how I broke my arm.' Bless her heart, she wants to get it published and she wants to give it to all her friends. I'm going to take it to the local Office Max and see what can be done with it.
Life is stunningly absurd.
I met with friends this afternoon, writer friends, and we spent a good two plus hours chatting. it was nice. At the end of the session, I showed them the critique from the last conference.
Sometimes, I get too close to things and I don't notice the obvious. My friend read the first line and said, 'This woman can't write. Where are her grammar skills?'
And she was right. The first sentence said, 'love the conceit.' Well, I knew she meant concept, but it doesn't matter. She didn't write concept, she wrote conceit. The grammar and sentence structure went down from there. As my friend pointed out mistake after mistake in the critiquer's writing, I realized that what my editor had said was true. This woman, two years ago, was a midwife. Now she's in publishing and supposed to be taken seriously?
My self-esteem grew in leaps. Except for the fact that I am still amazed at the brains of the women I associate with. They see things that escape me. Their eyes are open. Now I'm not saying I'm a dimwit. I have my strengths, too. But when I see such intelligence around me, I sway to it. I feel like I'm in a dance of sorts, the force of the universe swirling me about. I drink in their intelligence and rejoice that I am party to such friends.
I try, on a daily basis, to keep my eyes open to the nuances of people's speech patterns and body language. I try to be open to nature, to see the beauty and the absurdity in it. The spectacular along with the mundane. I fail constantly, but I keep trying.
I want to talk my daughter into coming with me to a breakfast with the birds event tomorrow morning. She's not really into that, but I want my granddaughter to be part of it. The child is amazing and I want to keep her vistas open wide so that her part of the essence of the universe shines. Ah, what am I saying. She already shines. She wrote a book, I don't remember if I said anything here, about how she broke her arm. The title is: 'The real story of how I broke my arm.' Bless her heart, she wants to get it published and she wants to give it to all her friends. I'm going to take it to the local Office Max and see what can be done with it.
Life is stunningly absurd.
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