Monday, May 22
The Great American Novel?
Early this year, the NY Times Book Review's editor sent a letter to a couple of hundred prominent writers, critics, editors and other literary sages asking them to identify "the single best work of American fiction published in the last 25 years." The results - in some respects quite surprising, in others not at all - provide a rich, if partial and unscientific, picture of the state of American literature, a kind of composite self-portrait as interesting perhaps for its blind spots and distortions as for its details.
What Is the Best Work of American Fiction of the Last 25 Years?
What Is the Best Work of American Fiction of the Last 25 Years?
Saturday, May 13
A-ha?
Since my last couple of posts, I've gotten a couple of nice, smart, inspiring e-mails. You know who you are, and there are links to their sites over on the right there. Jeff wrote a great e-mail about, essentially, not giving up and not being so hard on myself. And Krell made a suggestion (in context of other praise) about choosing parameters, and I've been thinking about it all week. Form follows function? Or is the other way around. So this is my current state of thinking on the topic:
Maybe there are two kinds of fiction.
First is the kind I've been writing a lot of but can't share for some reason, which is perhaps rambling and self-absorbed and mostly about working out all that *crap* (feelings, emotions, pop-psychology, etc.) that we deal with in our normal lives,. And then maybe a second kind, fiction written to be read by others, to impress an agent, to be published and/or to be ambitious and clever or to top best seller lists or to be optioned and made into indy films or just to be made into Disney channel sit-coms or whatever. I don't know; I'm just thinking out loud here.
I think my recent and regularly recurring struggles have been because of the collision of those two, the mix-up, the clash, which leads to me getting about 80 percent done with novels and then putting them away, and not pursuing publishing them or even letting anyone read them.
Earlier this week, I went back and read the first chapter or two of three or four of the novels stuffed into my desk drawers, and they're all about the same thing. Odd? No. And so when I think about trying to publish that which I know (in my heart of hearts) should perhaps not be published or see the light of day, I get frustrated by my lack of ability to give it out to be read and critiqued. And my posts below, the ones about the selfish nature of my fiction, how it's all about me and just me, fit the profile of that first kind of fiction perfectly but prevent progress on the second kind. See what I'm saying?
And once I can make the switch in my brain to pursue the second kind, and then do it -- set or choose the right parameters in other words -- even just for fun, for the experience of it, of trying to write a novel that I'd want to read or others to read (rather than just processing my daily routines and life) maybe, just maybe, something will come out of that and I'll be on to something.
In other words: a-ha!
Maybe there are two kinds of fiction.
First is the kind I've been writing a lot of but can't share for some reason, which is perhaps rambling and self-absorbed and mostly about working out all that *crap* (feelings, emotions, pop-psychology, etc.) that we deal with in our normal lives,. And then maybe a second kind, fiction written to be read by others, to impress an agent, to be published and/or to be ambitious and clever or to top best seller lists or to be optioned and made into indy films or just to be made into Disney channel sit-coms or whatever. I don't know; I'm just thinking out loud here.
I think my recent and regularly recurring struggles have been because of the collision of those two, the mix-up, the clash, which leads to me getting about 80 percent done with novels and then putting them away, and not pursuing publishing them or even letting anyone read them.
Earlier this week, I went back and read the first chapter or two of three or four of the novels stuffed into my desk drawers, and they're all about the same thing. Odd? No. And so when I think about trying to publish that which I know (in my heart of hearts) should perhaps not be published or see the light of day, I get frustrated by my lack of ability to give it out to be read and critiqued. And my posts below, the ones about the selfish nature of my fiction, how it's all about me and just me, fit the profile of that first kind of fiction perfectly but prevent progress on the second kind. See what I'm saying?
And once I can make the switch in my brain to pursue the second kind, and then do it -- set or choose the right parameters in other words -- even just for fun, for the experience of it, of trying to write a novel that I'd want to read or others to read (rather than just processing my daily routines and life) maybe, just maybe, something will come out of that and I'll be on to something.
In other words: a-ha!
Friday, May 5
A great leap forward?
While I haven't been actively writing for five weeks, or editing, or proofing, it's not like I've stopped thinking about or working on my current novel. In fact, while I wouldn't admit it, a caveman lawyer could easily make the case my current efforts stopped five weeks ago, not long after I sent the first chapter to a talented, trusted friend to read.
I've been reluctant to share my fiction with people, even close friends and family, probably because its way more personal than I'd wish it was or maybe would like it to be, and that's by choice because I find my interest wane in stories that don't have some resonance with my life and the current state of corporate-suburban American pop culture in which I live. "Write what you know" is a famous piece of advice for wanna-be writers. It turns out I try to. And I've been a chickenshit when it comes to letting people read because its so personal.
So, about three weeks ago now, my trusted, talented friend dropped me a note with his response to the first chapter of Les Dempsey Tries Again. And because he is trusted, and talented, and because I think we share a similar taste in fiction, I really want to listen and believe what he says, and learn from it and take his comments seriously.
And I have been thinking and working those comments over in my head for weeks now.
And, frankly, since we're being honest here, it's hard for me. One of the appeals of fiction writing to me is that it truly is a one-person, lonely vocation. There's no committee work, there's no collaboration, there's no second guessing by a supervisor or manager, there's no direction, there's nothing like all those things I deal with endlessly at my day job. It's just me and the story. It's up to me. It's mine. I don't want advice. That's the challenge, and that's the appeal. That's why I like the process of writing fiction.
When I make a choice that's wrong, and a talented, trusted friend notes it, it's humbling. It calls into question my whole approach, that of not seeking advice. And so I've been thinking about that choice he noted, and analyzing, and reviewing, and considering and reconsidering. Paralyzingly so, it turns out. But now I think I'm done thinking about it. I'm writing about it, right here, right now, see? So that's a good start. The log jam is coming unstuck. I think I'll take out the laptop later tonight and see if the one small/big suggestion he makes makes a difference.
And even if I don't keep his idea in my novel, the fact that I was able to share a chapter with him, and listen and seriously consider his advice, has already made a huge difference in my approach. The kind of difference that will let me let these stories go out into the world.
I've been reluctant to share my fiction with people, even close friends and family, probably because its way more personal than I'd wish it was or maybe would like it to be, and that's by choice because I find my interest wane in stories that don't have some resonance with my life and the current state of corporate-suburban American pop culture in which I live. "Write what you know" is a famous piece of advice for wanna-be writers. It turns out I try to. And I've been a chickenshit when it comes to letting people read because its so personal.
So, about three weeks ago now, my trusted, talented friend dropped me a note with his response to the first chapter of Les Dempsey Tries Again. And because he is trusted, and talented, and because I think we share a similar taste in fiction, I really want to listen and believe what he says, and learn from it and take his comments seriously.
And I have been thinking and working those comments over in my head for weeks now.
And, frankly, since we're being honest here, it's hard for me. One of the appeals of fiction writing to me is that it truly is a one-person, lonely vocation. There's no committee work, there's no collaboration, there's no second guessing by a supervisor or manager, there's no direction, there's nothing like all those things I deal with endlessly at my day job. It's just me and the story. It's up to me. It's mine. I don't want advice. That's the challenge, and that's the appeal. That's why I like the process of writing fiction.
When I make a choice that's wrong, and a talented, trusted friend notes it, it's humbling. It calls into question my whole approach, that of not seeking advice. And so I've been thinking about that choice he noted, and analyzing, and reviewing, and considering and reconsidering. Paralyzingly so, it turns out. But now I think I'm done thinking about it. I'm writing about it, right here, right now, see? So that's a good start. The log jam is coming unstuck. I think I'll take out the laptop later tonight and see if the one small/big suggestion he makes makes a difference.
And even if I don't keep his idea in my novel, the fact that I was able to share a chapter with him, and listen and seriously consider his advice, has already made a huge difference in my approach. The kind of difference that will let me let these stories go out into the world.
Tuesday, May 2
Well then
Monday, May 1
Is self publishing the answer?
May Day
May Day -- -- the worker's holiday -- has long been a focal point for demonstrations by various socialist, communist, and anarchist groups, and even today we saw millions take to the streets for immigrant's rights. And this year it marks the end of my holiday and a return to my work: fiction.
Apparently I used April as my own worker's holiday, or sabbatical, or vacation, or whatever. But now I'm committed to getting back to work (he says for at least the fifth time since the start of this fiction-tracking-device called The Edge of Nowhere) on my novels and short stories and so-called fiction career.
So: hear ye, hear ye, here is the year he starts anew. Let's call it the start of a new fiscal year…..
Apparently I used April as my own worker's holiday, or sabbatical, or vacation, or whatever. But now I'm committed to getting back to work (he says for at least the fifth time since the start of this fiction-tracking-device called The Edge of Nowhere) on my novels and short stories and so-called fiction career.
So: hear ye, hear ye, here is the year he starts anew. Let's call it the start of a new fiscal year…..
