Thank God for that notebook. Really. I've been jotting down character traits, character history, fine details and more vignette ideas almost constantly. A long car ride tends to yield the most fruitful thought because what else is there to do in a rural area while driving alone? Not much, let me tell ya.
It's been extremely hard to get on top of my freelance articles this week because the book is pulling at my attention constantly.
I hope to commit more actual novel to paper this weekend or early next week. As of now, I still only have a rough ending.
Oh, and apparently people are actually linking to this blog which is more than a little surprising to me given the lack of serious posting thus far. So, in the grand tradition of narcissism, I shall post here more often so those of you linking lovelies will have something of my drivel to read!
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
The English Patient
I finished my first book for the Armchair Traveling reading challenge, and it was spectacular!
My friend Elise recommended The English Patient several times, and I've had it on my near-toppling stack of "to read" books for years (literally, years). I'm really glad I finally picked it up because it was much more than I ever expected. In fact, it was one of those very rare books that made me desperately want to immediately re-read in an effort to soak it up entirely and catch all the little nuances I might've missed the first time around. It's definitely a book that deserves re-reading.
To summarize, it's the story of Hana, a WWII nurse in Italy who stays behind in a bombed out villa to take care of a severely burned Englishman known only as the "English patient" until late in the story. Hana and the English patient are joined by Caravaggio, a long-time friend of Hana's and a thief mutilated during the course of his job as a spy. And, finally, an Indian sapper (expert at dismantling bombs) named Kip.
I think what I loved most about this story was the intricate interweaving of the four characters' stories, experiences and points of view. Ondaatje crafts a vivid identity for each character, but it's slow in coming. The reader is given small snatches of each's background throughout the novel, but the slowest to unfold is the English patient himself. Through a mixture of straightforward recollections, bits of writing and morphine-clouded ramblings, the reader understands the English patient's harrowing past, tragic love story and how he came to exist among the villa's odd family.
The draw for any book lover is certainly the abundance of literary references and the dependence and importance that books and words play in several of the characters' experiences.
A few quotes for you:
"She had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape. Whereas I thought words bent emotions like sticks in water" (238).
"Now, months later in the Villa San Girolamo, in the hill town north of Florence, in the arbour room that is his bedroom, he reposes like the sculpture of the dead knight in Ravenna. He speaks in fragments about oasis towns, the later Medicis, the prose style of Kipling, the woman who bit into his flesh. And in his commonplace book, his 1890 edition of Herotodus' Histories, are other fragments--maps, diary entries, writings in many languages, paragraphs cut out of other books. All that is missing is his own name. There is still no clue to who he actually is, nameless, without rank or battalion or squadron. The references in his book are all pre-war, the deserts of Egypt and Libya in the 1930s, interspersed with references to cave art or gallery art or journal notes in his own small handwriting" (96).
"Read him slowly, dear girl, you must read Kipling slowly. Watch carefully where the commas fall so you can discover the natural pauses. He is a writer who used pen and ink. He looked up from the page a lot. I believe, stared through his window and listened to birds, as most writers who are alone do. Some do not know the names of birds, though he did. Your eye is too quick and North American. Think about the speed of his pen. What an appalling, barnacled old first paragraph it is otherwise" (94).
This book was a fantastic way to start off the challenge, and it's made picking my next book extremely difficult. However, finally, I think I've settled on The Last Communist Virgin, by Wang Ping. It's a book of short stories and just different enough in tone and writing style to help me avoid the slump that could come from reading a great book like The English Patient.
My friend Elise recommended The English Patient several times, and I've had it on my near-toppling stack of "to read" books for years (literally, years). I'm really glad I finally picked it up because it was much more than I ever expected. In fact, it was one of those very rare books that made me desperately want to immediately re-read in an effort to soak it up entirely and catch all the little nuances I might've missed the first time around. It's definitely a book that deserves re-reading.
To summarize, it's the story of Hana, a WWII nurse in Italy who stays behind in a bombed out villa to take care of a severely burned Englishman known only as the "English patient" until late in the story. Hana and the English patient are joined by Caravaggio, a long-time friend of Hana's and a thief mutilated during the course of his job as a spy. And, finally, an Indian sapper (expert at dismantling bombs) named Kip.
I think what I loved most about this story was the intricate interweaving of the four characters' stories, experiences and points of view. Ondaatje crafts a vivid identity for each character, but it's slow in coming. The reader is given small snatches of each's background throughout the novel, but the slowest to unfold is the English patient himself. Through a mixture of straightforward recollections, bits of writing and morphine-clouded ramblings, the reader understands the English patient's harrowing past, tragic love story and how he came to exist among the villa's odd family.
The draw for any book lover is certainly the abundance of literary references and the dependence and importance that books and words play in several of the characters' experiences.
A few quotes for you:
"She had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape. Whereas I thought words bent emotions like sticks in water" (238).
"Now, months later in the Villa San Girolamo, in the hill town north of Florence, in the arbour room that is his bedroom, he reposes like the sculpture of the dead knight in Ravenna. He speaks in fragments about oasis towns, the later Medicis, the prose style of Kipling, the woman who bit into his flesh. And in his commonplace book, his 1890 edition of Herotodus' Histories, are other fragments--maps, diary entries, writings in many languages, paragraphs cut out of other books. All that is missing is his own name. There is still no clue to who he actually is, nameless, without rank or battalion or squadron. The references in his book are all pre-war, the deserts of Egypt and Libya in the 1930s, interspersed with references to cave art or gallery art or journal notes in his own small handwriting" (96).
"Read him slowly, dear girl, you must read Kipling slowly. Watch carefully where the commas fall so you can discover the natural pauses. He is a writer who used pen and ink. He looked up from the page a lot. I believe, stared through his window and listened to birds, as most writers who are alone do. Some do not know the names of birds, though he did. Your eye is too quick and North American. Think about the speed of his pen. What an appalling, barnacled old first paragraph it is otherwise" (94).
This book was a fantastic way to start off the challenge, and it's made picking my next book extremely difficult. However, finally, I think I've settled on The Last Communist Virgin, by Wang Ping. It's a book of short stories and just different enough in tone and writing style to help me avoid the slump that could come from reading a great book like The English Patient.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Life Stuff Rides Again
It's been a long time (too long) since I've posted here!
I am happy to say that I've been busy writing, which is one of the reasons I've been so absent. My current freelance position, writing search engine optimized (SEO) articles for a reputable academic publisher has taken up a good bit of my time. I write at least 40 articles a month, and I'm trying to up those numbers a bit before the school year starts.
Which leads me to the next item keeping me away from this blog and my creative writing. I've been blessed (BLESSSSED) with a job teaching Developmental Reading and Freshman Composition at a local community college. I'm particularly excited about this position because the school is so much larger and well-endowed in the technology department than the last community college where I taught. Right now I'll be teaching on a part-time basis, but the head of the English department seems quite interested in getting me on full-time when a position becomes available. I'm just thrilled to be teaching. After four years of it, I'm absolutely hooked, and there's little else (besides being a professional reader and full-time writer) that I'd rather do.
As for my creative writing, well, it's fallen to the wayside for the moment. However, I do have a goal for myself: finish my novel within the next six months. I guess I need to get on the ball if I'm going to have any chance of reaching that goal. I have a young adult novel swimming around at the forefront of my head, so I think I'll start there.
I am happy to say that I've been busy writing, which is one of the reasons I've been so absent. My current freelance position, writing search engine optimized (SEO) articles for a reputable academic publisher has taken up a good bit of my time. I write at least 40 articles a month, and I'm trying to up those numbers a bit before the school year starts.
Which leads me to the next item keeping me away from this blog and my creative writing. I've been blessed (BLESSSSED) with a job teaching Developmental Reading and Freshman Composition at a local community college. I'm particularly excited about this position because the school is so much larger and well-endowed in the technology department than the last community college where I taught. Right now I'll be teaching on a part-time basis, but the head of the English department seems quite interested in getting me on full-time when a position becomes available. I'm just thrilled to be teaching. After four years of it, I'm absolutely hooked, and there's little else (besides being a professional reader and full-time writer) that I'd rather do.
As for my creative writing, well, it's fallen to the wayside for the moment. However, I do have a goal for myself: finish my novel within the next six months. I guess I need to get on the ball if I'm going to have any chance of reaching that goal. I have a young adult novel swimming around at the forefront of my head, so I think I'll start there.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Room (or Desk) of One's Own
One of the first questions I always ask when I interview an author is, "Do you have any writing rituals or unbreakable habits? Staring into the fridge or wandering aimlessly, maybe?"
I ask this question because it's one of those things that confounds me as a writer. Whether I'm working on a term paper for my graduate coursework (no more, by the way, I'm almost done), writing a freelance article or drafting a review for Estella's Revenge, I have habits. Unbreakable habits. Annoying, horrible habits.
First and foremost, I'm a wanderer. That is, I'll sit down to write, I'll think, I'll put a few words to paper, and I'll get up and wander away. I'll walk aimlessly, stare into the fridge, look out the door, and come back to my computer. From there I'll commit another paragraph or so to paper, get up, and wander some more. It's exhausting, really. A little like interval training. Walk for a bit, sprint like a madwoman, slow back down to a trudge and then run like hell until all tired out again.
I got quite the reputation when I was working on my Master's thesis proposal as I would draft a page or so, wander into the Communication Skills Center to visit the tutors, and eventually sigh heavily, make a snide remark, and return to my computer. They--and I--all thought it was nutty, but I suppose it worked.
Beyond the unbreakable habits, I'm also interested in the locations where people write. I'm quite the finicky number when it comes to writing location. I can't write just anywhere. I can't deal with writing more than a sentence or two longhand, and I can't have too many distractions. While in my younger days (think teens), I could read or write in the middle of a hurricane. Give me radio! Give me T.V.! Give me cows flying by the window and ants in my pants! I could write through it all.
Now, give me quiet! Give me peace! Give me all noise-making appliances in the "off" position!
Call it age, call it adult onset ADD, call it what you like. I don't do noise and distraction. The wandering is the distraction. I can control that.
These days I call the kitchen table my office, and it works really well. I'm positioned in a large open space. I can see the living room, I can peek down the hall. I have two sunny windows to my left and a refrigerator mere feet away to stare into. It's heaven. What happens when the office is ready? Nicely filled with a desk, bookshelves and eight miles of books? Hell if I know. I just hope it works as well as this old kitchen table. If not, I'm probably screwed.
We're finicky things, we writers. Or maybe it's just me. I hear there are many much-more-talented-than-I scribblers who can write with dogs chewing on their feet, children clutching their pant legs and herds of antelope galloping through their space. Not me. Oh no. I'm much more high maintenance than that. Give me a quiet kitchen and a GE ice box, and I'm your girl.
I ask this question because it's one of those things that confounds me as a writer. Whether I'm working on a term paper for my graduate coursework (no more, by the way, I'm almost done), writing a freelance article or drafting a review for Estella's Revenge, I have habits. Unbreakable habits. Annoying, horrible habits.
First and foremost, I'm a wanderer. That is, I'll sit down to write, I'll think, I'll put a few words to paper, and I'll get up and wander away. I'll walk aimlessly, stare into the fridge, look out the door, and come back to my computer. From there I'll commit another paragraph or so to paper, get up, and wander some more. It's exhausting, really. A little like interval training. Walk for a bit, sprint like a madwoman, slow back down to a trudge and then run like hell until all tired out again.
I got quite the reputation when I was working on my Master's thesis proposal as I would draft a page or so, wander into the Communication Skills Center to visit the tutors, and eventually sigh heavily, make a snide remark, and return to my computer. They--and I--all thought it was nutty, but I suppose it worked.
Beyond the unbreakable habits, I'm also interested in the locations where people write. I'm quite the finicky number when it comes to writing location. I can't write just anywhere. I can't deal with writing more than a sentence or two longhand, and I can't have too many distractions. While in my younger days (think teens), I could read or write in the middle of a hurricane. Give me radio! Give me T.V.! Give me cows flying by the window and ants in my pants! I could write through it all.
Now, give me quiet! Give me peace! Give me all noise-making appliances in the "off" position!
Call it age, call it adult onset ADD, call it what you like. I don't do noise and distraction. The wandering is the distraction. I can control that.
These days I call the kitchen table my office, and it works really well. I'm positioned in a large open space. I can see the living room, I can peek down the hall. I have two sunny windows to my left and a refrigerator mere feet away to stare into. It's heaven. What happens when the office is ready? Nicely filled with a desk, bookshelves and eight miles of books? Hell if I know. I just hope it works as well as this old kitchen table. If not, I'm probably screwed.
We're finicky things, we writers. Or maybe it's just me. I hear there are many much-more-talented-than-I scribblers who can write with dogs chewing on their feet, children clutching their pant legs and herds of antelope galloping through their space. Not me. Oh no. I'm much more high maintenance than that. Give me a quiet kitchen and a GE ice box, and I'm your girl.
*Please note, the charming photograph at the top is most definitely not my writing space. I could never writing sitting in a comfy leather chair. Too pleasant. I need a hard wooden chair that puts my butt to sleep. Keeps me alert and on my toes. But it is a nice picture, yes?
Thursday, June 7, 2007
It's like....a job.
I recently landed a freelance job writing SEO articles for a very large company and a very sizeable website. I couldn't be more thrilled to have obtained this particular position. I love the flexibility, I love the topics I write about, I love the work all the way around.
Now I just have to self-motivate.
While I'm generally a very self-motivated person in general, I also tend toward procrastination. However, at this point, this job is too big to procrastinate and the sheer amount of material drives me to stay on task. Quite a learning experience so far.
I can't say that I don't procrastinate at all, though. Whenever my behind falls asleep, I clean the house. Yesterday I folded clothes, swept, mopped and did dishes. All because my behind was asleep.
Who knew?
Now I just have to self-motivate.
While I'm generally a very self-motivated person in general, I also tend toward procrastination. However, at this point, this job is too big to procrastinate and the sheer amount of material drives me to stay on task. Quite a learning experience so far.
I can't say that I don't procrastinate at all, though. Whenever my behind falls asleep, I clean the house. Yesterday I folded clothes, swept, mopped and did dishes. All because my behind was asleep.
Who knew?
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Daily Writing Tips
See my latest work at Daily Writing Tips. The site includes advice on grammar, punctuation, misused words, spelling, writing basics and fiction writing.
My first post is Audience is Everything.
Click HERE to visit.
My first post is Audience is Everything.
Click HERE to visit.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Horizon? Yes, and it looks decent today.
Got a gig! Will share when a piece actually goes up.
It seems this last leg of the month is always crammed full of writing. With the last minute lunge to get Estella's Revenge online, I feel most "writerly" right now. Formatting author interviews, editing essays, scraping together my own work for the new issue. It's exhilarating and exhausting, and that's how I've always pictured the "writing life."
One thing I've learned in these last few months of freelancing, is that it's also wicked hard. But, surprisingly enough, I'm not as downtrodden and hopeless as I was afraid I might be after a handful (ok, dozens) of rejections. Maybe because I haven't actually received any rejections...just gigs that sort of meandered off into the sunset, backs turned, and pretended I'm not here waving my arms and screaming for some confirmation.
But I digress...
It's a mad lifestyle and it's a mad business and one just has to wade through, up to one's respective waist in shit until the ground begins to dry up and you can catch your footing again.
Press on, kids, press on.
For a real pick-me-up, read this story from New York magazine. Click HERE. While it might make you want to swan dive off of a 36-story building, there's also some odd comfort in the community aspect of writing. I've been lucky to find some of that not only among my graduate school peers, but my Lovely Ladies of Writing group, too.
(I just came up with that name, what do you girls think?)
It seems this last leg of the month is always crammed full of writing. With the last minute lunge to get Estella's Revenge online, I feel most "writerly" right now. Formatting author interviews, editing essays, scraping together my own work for the new issue. It's exhilarating and exhausting, and that's how I've always pictured the "writing life."
One thing I've learned in these last few months of freelancing, is that it's also wicked hard. But, surprisingly enough, I'm not as downtrodden and hopeless as I was afraid I might be after a handful (ok, dozens) of rejections. Maybe because I haven't actually received any rejections...just gigs that sort of meandered off into the sunset, backs turned, and pretended I'm not here waving my arms and screaming for some confirmation.
But I digress...
It's a mad lifestyle and it's a mad business and one just has to wade through, up to one's respective waist in shit until the ground begins to dry up and you can catch your footing again.
Press on, kids, press on.
For a real pick-me-up, read this story from New York magazine. Click HERE. While it might make you want to swan dive off of a 36-story building, there's also some odd comfort in the community aspect of writing. I've been lucky to find some of that not only among my graduate school peers, but my Lovely Ladies of Writing group, too.
(I just came up with that name, what do you girls think?)
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Short Stories Knocking on My Brain
It's a fortuitous turn of fate that since I posted my rant about my troubles with short stories, I now have one feverishly knocking on my brain. I found a site today that publishes chick lit short story offerings, and I immediately had an idea. Never have I thought of writing a chick lit short story (novel, yes; story, no). But *poof* there it was, begging for attention, bugging the heck out of me.
So, I'm writing a chick lit short story. It stars a duck. Who knew!
Stay tuned.
So, I'm writing a chick lit short story. It stars a duck. Who knew!
Stay tuned.
Monday, May 14, 2007
If there's one thing I've learned...
If there's one thing I've learned about this freelance game so far it's:
Never count a query out.
More than a month ago I applied for a freelance position with a respected academic publisher and after a few weeks I lost hope that I would hear from this particular position. It seems that I (incorrectly) assumed that a job of this sort would go quickly. Apparently (thankfully) I was wrong. I heard from the company today and they requested more info (references, writing sample), so it appears I might still have a chance!
As the proud owner of the "Most Impatient Woman on Earth" title, I have to remember, sometimes progress takes a while. Much longer than I would like.
Cross your fingers! It would be wonderful to be able to pay rent and buy food once I move across the country in a few weeks.
Never count a query out.
More than a month ago I applied for a freelance position with a respected academic publisher and after a few weeks I lost hope that I would hear from this particular position. It seems that I (incorrectly) assumed that a job of this sort would go quickly. Apparently (thankfully) I was wrong. I heard from the company today and they requested more info (references, writing sample), so it appears I might still have a chance!
As the proud owner of the "Most Impatient Woman on Earth" title, I have to remember, sometimes progress takes a while. Much longer than I would like.
Cross your fingers! It would be wonderful to be able to pay rent and buy food once I move across the country in a few weeks.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
On Writing: Journaling and Short Stories
I've always attempted journaling but I can't say that I've had very good luck. There are journals piled around here everywhere, some of them full, some half-full, some sporadically drawn and written in. Doodles, phrases...sentences if they're lucky. Periods of manic scribbling and years of silence.
My computer has become more of a journal than any bound volume could've ever hoped. I can type much faster than I write. In light of this simultanous compulsion to write and total lack of consistency, my computer has lots of little bits of me floating around in it. I write snatches...thoughts that seem particularly poetic or promising. Blips of frustration. Collections of mild insanity. Since I can't sleep, I was reading through some of my niblets and found a diatribe on writing short stories.....
And then I went back to work on a short story that I've left languishing, loveless for a year or more.
My computer has become more of a journal than any bound volume could've ever hoped. I can type much faster than I write. In light of this simultanous compulsion to write and total lack of consistency, my computer has lots of little bits of me floating around in it. I write snatches...thoughts that seem particularly poetic or promising. Blips of frustration. Collections of mild insanity. Since I can't sleep, I was reading through some of my niblets and found a diatribe on writing short stories.....
I don’t particularly like short stories. They’re premature novels…brain puffs that never got loved into life. They’re the angsty teenagers of the literary world standing bold and defiant amidst authorities but really longing for love and maturity. Maybe I’m just bitter because I’m no Flannery O’Connor or Annie Proulx. I’m not even a second-rate John Grisham or Dan Brown. Maybe I’m just mad because I don’t think I have a good short story in me. A friend says we all have one novel in us. I happen to know I have four novels in me, but short stories…I don’t feel those knocking on the inside of my head antsy to be loosed upon the world. The novels are insistent. Bratty even. They claw and scratch and scramble. Short stories don’t whip themselves up in my head. They don’t jump around like magic beans..
I feel like I should write short stories. Shouldn’t I crawl before I walk? And that’s a cliché I wouldn’t put into a short story unless it was a particularly naughty one that I felt needed punishing. If I wrote a short story I’d want it to be gritty. Completely unlike me in every visible way. I would step half out of myself. I would put the academian aside and embrace my past. The one I don’t think about too often. I would embrace my upbringing. The one that most “refined” people would hope I’d find embarrassing. The Texas’ness in me. The street dances and the rodeos. The smell of cow shit globbed on the foot rail at the stockyards. Grease and rocks and fried fish. Baby rabbits in shoe boxes—a surprise from my grandpa. Crawfishing with bacon on a string, my grandmother chasing my cousin around with a cigarette in one hand and a flyswatter in the other. “Y’all” and “yesterdy night” and horses and trail rides and thunderstorms. The dirtiest, most precious station wagon on the planet. Johnny Cash and Hank Williams, Sr., and Big Red soda. My ancestors would kick my country girl ass for calling it soda.
And then I went back to work on a short story that I've left languishing, loveless for a year or more.
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