Category Archives: Read’in and Writ’in

I am so frustrated about the new book I am working on, I can barely force myself to sit down to work on it. If I were not in a master’s program, with this my thesis project, I would have scrapped it long ago. I think, by nature, I’m good at weaving a fun story with fun characters. My dialogue works and I build tension and create plausible situations that are entertaining.

In this book, I am trying to accomplish something more than just telling a story. I’m trying to weave dance philosophy and insight into the damn thing in artistic ways, which keeps messing up the story. Yet, without this didactic garbage, I feel the book reads like cheap commercial fiction –which I swear, I’m cut out to do – and I believe I will be successful at – but doesn’t stretch my technical skill in a way necessary to grow.

I received my monthly response from my mentor today. She said my last submission included the most “successful and engaging chapters submitted so far.” She also added, “You’ve had my attentions from the get-go, and you kept it throughout. What really made the difference in these chapters is that you remained in scene almost exclusively. . . . a lot happens…”    

Well, of course a lot happens. A lot happens in all my books – EXCEPT this one. Clearly, my attempts at being “literary” are falling short – an affected imitation of obscure literature. Blah Blah Blah. I need to stop preaching and just write a story about dance. It is just so hard to unravel what I’ve woven into the story so far. Every scene was written to support the darn critical essays about dance – so removing them makes me feel the internal motivation of my character isn’t going to be real for the reader.

What a sticky wicket.

My first mentor liked the “voice” of those essays passages, but also questioned whether or not they belonged. Now, I am hearing, basically, the same advice again, just said in a different way. Gee – if you hear something more than once, you have to listen. So, I need to sit down, read the entire manuscript and start slashing. (Sigh) I need to let this book be what it is, and stop trying to force it to be what I want it to be.

I can’t wait to finish this project. I want go back to my second historical. I want to write a book that makes me laugh and sigh. I want to fall in love with my hero as I pull his puppet strings to make him an admirable man that is significant in the lives of others. I want to step out of my world, my life, and go somewhere new, back in time, where romance, innovation and courage touches the lives of those who need it. (Going back to the dance world is not a fun escape for me. Sad but true.)

I have lost enthusiasm for writing this month. That is not like me. I’ve been thinking it is because of spring, or because of other personal issues, but really, I think it’s just that this book doesn’t excite me. It actually makes me tired. Annoyed.

I’ve received lots of positive, encouraging commentary from my teachers that make me feel I have promise as a writer. I just have to channel my energy, my instinct and my creative juices to the subjects that inspire me. And brings me joy. The entire point of writing is not to accomplish something specifically – but to do what I love –  without fear or expectation.   

Thank God I am pursuing my MFA, however, because it keeps me at the grindstone, forcing me to maintain a degree of discipline that will mold the writer lurking inside of me – like it or not.

I guess, the book I am working on now is like eating my spinach. But man o man – what a bitter taste it has lately.

I belong to an erotic book club. What can I say? I have diverse reading interests. I figure, with all the Hemmingway, Faulkner, Carver, and Wolf I read, no one can dare accuse me of being intellectually un-evolved. One might say I am feeding my mind mush, but considering all the nutritious literature I swallow, I argue that it just gives me balance.

Erotic literature can be remarkably well written. Not all of it, of course. Much of it is garbage (like comparing a slush romance novel to Gone with the Wind). But a great deal of it is provocative, and touches upon life’s great truth and humanity. Sex is a basic human drive. How we feel about it is closely woven with our psyche and personality, so it offers a great canvas to paint a story upon. And it’s not like written erotica can be compared to pornographic movies where any evidence of talent, art or intelligence is pushed aside to focus on other sorts of stimulus. Erotic literature is often written by some of the most gifted writers, and in these cases, good literary erotica fascinates me.

Enough justification.  I like to read a good sex story. So sue me.

Historically, sex has been the subject of great art for as long as mankind. Just look at Renaissance art, the plays of Shakespeare or the wisdom of Plato. Sex has always been a driving force behind politics, culture, and human behavior. I’m fascinated by how mankind views sex in relation to its current cultural needs. For example, when the species needs to propagate (after war), or when birth control methods become available (look at the 60’s) human sexual morals have loosened, but when power is connected to lineage and control over others is precarious, morals are exaggerated in the other direction. (Vikings, Victorian age). Then there is all those moral associations attached.  I find religion’s iron fist on sexual behaviors often at fault for twisting what is a base human drive into something people feel badly about. Shame on them for shaming us.

When viewed academically, sex is really a simple thing. A lovely part of human nature. But the fact that it is so closely connected to our emotions (family ties, religious beliefs, power, self-image, etc…) it tends to be about everything EXCEPT human connection and an expression of love. Sad that.

Lord, I’m on a tangent. What was my point?   Oh yea, my book club.

I don’t have time to read anything other than my MFA reading list now a days, but I was looking at the monthly club selections and noting that a particular book of short stories I liked (called, Stories to Make you Blush) had a sequel, so I ordered it. I was fascinated to see that in addition to the normal selections of erotic literature, they also were offering so many racy romance novels. When did that happen? There’s an entire genre of erotic romance hitting the scene, and I was looking, with shock, at all these well-known romance authors, now moving into this hard-core erotic field. They are writing love stories with juicy, graphic sex scenes, I guess, and marketing them as soft porn. 

Then, I noticed that they are discontinuing the erotic book club altogether. I suppose I am the last to know. I’ve been throwing away the monthly selection packet since I started grad school. No interest at this time. Anyway, the Venus book club has been bought by a romance club, and they are changing it to a book club featuring “over the top” racy romance books – of which there seem to be an endless supply.

I personally, don’t like these kinds of hard core romance books. I want my romance novels to be “romantic”, more about relationships and story than a set up for sex scenes, and I want my erotic literature to be more “literary” and focused on sex without all the pretense. This hybrid is something else altogether. Unappealing.

Anyway, they have sold my membership to this new company. Since I have no obligation to buy, I’ll stay on the list awhile, just to keep abreast of the changing trends in romantic literature. But the entire thing is weird to me.

Just who is reading all this erotic romance? Is it somehow less conspicuous or less vulgar to read erotica when it is camouflaged as a romance novel? And between you and me, I think this new genre does lack the intellectual fascination of actual erotic literature.  The entire thing is a big disappointment to me.

For a long time, I studied the romance market, because I thought I was cut out to write books in the field. But the longer I study writing and the better I get to know myself, the more I realize I don’t fit the mold. My books will always be steeped in romance, for that is how I view the world, but they will always be more than that – more about the people, the history, the STORY of their lives. I will allow sex to seep into my tales when it belongs, not in a contrived way, but because that is, after all, a true rendition of humanity – and sex is a great way to portray character. Not all sex is created equal, ya know, and how one expresses themselves with another says a lot about who they are internally. And face it, I like sex. I am not uncomfortable with the subject, (between sheets of paper or sheets of Egyptian cotton). They say, write what you know. Ha. Talk about a rule that can get me into trouble.

I will probably never be published – not because I don’t write well, but because I won’t write for the market. Can’t go there. I will have to find my own nitch, but to date, I haven’t figured out where that will be.

I think you know you are getting old when you start resenting social change – accusing it of becoming more generic, commercial, and dropping the intellectual bar for the generations to come. Like an old coot complaining that “they don’t make ’em like they used to.”

Don’t know when that happened, but I’m there.

Writing a book is hard.

That’s not what I mean.

Writing a good book is hard.

Yep.

Anyone can hack out a book for entertainment. I’ve done that myself. Had a ball. But to organize a story with impact, to employ skill and language to enthrall someone (not to be confused with fluffy entertainment) is quite a challenge.

I’ve been struggling with the ugly reality – “the more you know, the more you realize you don’t know,” for a few months now. The better I get, the worse I feel. Fancy that.

I’m buried in studies – getting that classical education I was convinced was the foundation I needed to become a better writer. I don’t regret the decision, but it’s hard.

It’s hard to maintain that intense focus month after month, working at a desk when all around, life is beckoning me to sample its delicious flavors.  I mean, I don’t have to do this. I’m not training to be a teacher or expecting to become some exalted author. I’m financially secure, and don’t need to prove myself in any way (Heck, I’ve already proven accomplished in an arena or two.) I’m seeking an MFA because I’m compelled to – I feel driven to understand this craft from a more centered place. The only thing I expect to accomplish is to be better, which for some unexplainable reason, is vitally important to me. So, I’m making sacrifices of time, effort and, leisure (as a main course) and stomping my ego (for dessert).

It’s hard to wade through obscure books that challenge my mind and force me to think in a new way (and most of the literature assigned is dark in nature, and that’s not exactly uplifting.) People say, “Wow, you’re only 46 and retired already. With means to enjoy it. How fun! Lucky you!” But I’m working harder now than I have in ages – I guess because I’m in a realm that highlights my inadequacies (I miss feeling accomplished and “good at what I do”). But it isn’t just writing. Reading is no longer entertainment. It’s work. Yet, I’m riveted by all the books I’m exposed to, and I’m developing a different perspective on the world through them. So, I keep at it. Loving every page – even the pages I hate.

It’s hard to start seeing all the odd foibles and personality quirks I tend to put in my work, hard to kill my natural cheesy instincts, even though I understand I must. I’m beginning to think I am more suited to write corny Hollywood fluff than serious literature. Nevertheless, I’m determined to be able to do both.

It’s hard to get it all right, the story arch, the characters, the dialogue, the theme, the language, the voice…. It is all so big, this writing a book. It’s like trying to paint a picture by looking through a keyhole. You can never see the entire thing in one glance, so you keep going over and over it, unsure whether the big picture is in proportion, or some gross rendering of your attempted subject – like a Picasso, when what you were hoping to paint was a Degas.

It’s hard to accept the unending criticism, even when you know it is all commentary you need to hear and you should be grateful for it. And you know a teacher wouldn’t correct you or give you such honest feedback if they didn’t think you had the intellectual capacity to understand it (which is, if you think about it, complimentary – but that doesn’t soothe the sting). 

It’s hard to know they’re right every time, because they can see clearly what you’re missing over and over again, no matter how intensely you scrutinize your own work beforehand.

It’s hard to learn that no matter how long I do this, it won’t get any easier. That’s evident when you start reading author interviews. It’s just a fact. This will be hard forever.

I’m tired.

Writing a good book is hard. Hell, reading a good book is hard.

And here I am, hard at work trying to do both.

I guess, the way I’m feeling today can be summed up in a few words . What I’m doing now isn’t fun.
It’s hard . 
Still – I can’t stop doing it.

When I decided to make a big life change, I imagined I’d be living in the quiet mountains of Georgia with endless time to enjoy life. I’d have uninterrupted hours to enjoy nature, to study and write. However, the reality is different. I am always behind, feeling like there is too much to do. My “I have to get to . . .” list never empties.

Part of this is the fact that we are still working on setting up our new world, building a house,  remodeling a cabin, setting up our new property management business, all of which entails lots of work and organization – errands galore…. And part of it is my commitment to family. I’m “there” for my kids 110% (making up for lost time, don’t ya know). And part of it is that I decided to jump the gun and start a hobby farm even before moving to the land – so every day I have this 35-minute drive each way to feed my four legged friends. Then, there is the normal stuff you try to squeeze into your day, working out, cooking, running, an occasional ride when you can’t resist. And throw into the mix the various hobbies I am toying with, jewelry making, crafts etc…. And most importantly- I have to watch American Idol, ya know.

But most of it is this damn MFA I’m pursuing. It requires about 35 hours a week, which is just about a full time job. I love reading. Love writing, but once it becomes a “Have to do” rather than a “want to do” the flavor of it all changes. I find I have to force myself to work on my book. When I was running the dance empire, writing was my escape. I adored it. Now, it’s an obligation, and I find myself making excuses to avoid it. It’s all about attitude, I guess, and I have to work to keep my writing associations positive.Not that I don’t still love to write. I don’t have to force myself to blog – but then, that writing isn’t required. It’s a pleasure because it’s a choice.  The fact is, the book I’m writing isn’t fun. It isn’t full of romance, sex, and all the stuff I can sink my teeth into with joy. It’s filled with social commentary and purpose, and it’s literary (ugh). I don’t like my new book, but I am told no one likes their book if they are writing something “real.” (Bah. Humbug to that.)  

Nevertheless, I’m happy with my studies. I know I’m improving, and I’m getting some wonderful feedback from professors I admire. I think going back to school for a formal writing education is the best decision I could have made, considering my long term goals. Now, I’m forced to push the envelope as a writer. I’m exposed to authors I’d never bother to read if I wasn’t forced to, and I’m learning so much more than how to structure a sentence from the experience. 

But still, I miss reading for fun. I miss being able to follow an interest and pick up a book just because I’m fascinated with the subject. Today, I actually ordered a book for pleasure. I probably won’t have time to read it for a year (when I graduate) but still, I couldn’t resist. It’s called In Praise of Slowness, Challenging the Cult of Speed. It’s a book about the philosophy of “making real and meaningful connections with people, culture, work, food, everything.” It isn’t a book that attacks our current culture – just one that questions it and offers alternatives. I read a fascinating interview with the author and a review of the book in the World Ark, the magazine for Heifer international (OK, I do make time for my bleeding heart periodicals…. So shoot me, I worry about the world, and I’m still trying to save it, one goat at a time.)

But for now, like it or not, I’m reading Burning Your Boats, short stories by an sophisticated British writer, Angela Carter, (and trying to come up with some intellectual opinion about it for my next book annotation, which ain’t easy). And a book called, “Believer’s Book of Writers Talking to other Writers”, which is an intellectual look into the motivations of some respected world writers. It’s actually pretty good. I just finished a collection of Raymond Carter’s short stories (liked it) and a book entitled Caramella, (a memoir) for my creative non-fiction studies – which, by the way, is going extremely well. I have a gift for non-fiction, apparently, and I think, when I am done with my torturous dance novel, I’ll try my hand at a humorous memoir about midlife change and moving to the country.

But boy, what I wouldn’t do for the time to read a racy romance with great sex and absolutely no intellectual value right now. (Sigh).

I saw a wonderful quote today”

“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.”  – Mahatma Gandhi-

Good advice, I think. At least, I’m getting the “learning” part down now. When school is over, maybe I’ll have time to tackle the “living” part too. In fact, just to be sure, I’ll put it on my “have to get to. . .” list.