Blood & Rhetoric

I have two projects in the works right now. The first (Blood Baptism) is something I started two years ago and promptly abandoned after discovering, much to my chagrin, that writing a novel is really hard.

Revolutionary concept, I know.

The second (Song to the Moon) is almost three months in the works, and is being developed via Forward Motion’s 2 Year Novel writing course. We haven’t started writing the actual novel yet, but are posting “assignments” based on weekly classes. Right now we’re focused on developing characters and then posting snippets of writing about them.

It’s a wonderful course and I’m finding it incredibly helpful to approach writing in such a structured and methodical manner. I decided to apply the structure of 2YN to Blood Baptism, to see if it would help me with that tricky little piece of business.

See, two years ago, I was taking an English Lit. class at the University of Toronto, and much to my delight (and surprise) the professor was an amazing and brilliant man. Ever have the kind of teacher who made you look forward to class? Who constantly challenged your ideas and provided amazing insights into literature like you’ve never experienced before? Well this man was that teacher. He focused alot of the concept of mutual exclusives and it got the little wheels in my head turning. Mutual exclusives deal with one concept or ideal being pushed to it’s limit and thereby turning into it’s opposite. Like good and evil, or chivalry and machiavellianism.

That’s how Blood Baptism was born.

I wanted to take all the standard fantasy tropes and cliches and turn them inside out. The quest, good vs. evil, over-the-top-magic, the wise mentor, the innocent-turned-saviour, the EEEEVIILLLLL overlord — all the things that saturate the fantasy genre to such a tremendous degree — and approach them from an angle of realism. 

That is, realism within a world where those things could exist.

What would actually happen in a dystopian world fraught with unhealed scars, prejudices, and a malicious dictatorship, where an ancient prophecy was fulfilled and the trodded-upon placed its hope for salvation in the hands of two innocents? Well for one, not everyone in that society would buy into it; for another, success would most likely be impossible and failure a foregone conclusion.

Not a very shiny-happy premise, but I was obsessed by it. The actual execution was a mess for many different reasons, but I never forgot that story. So now I’m back at it again, and it’s finally coming alive.

Ideas sometimes need a longer gestation period than the writer would like. I’m hoping that Song to the Moon doesn’t have the same growing pains, but it’s too early to tell.

Either way, if you have a chance to participate in 2YN the next time around, take it. It’s free at Forward Motion or you can buy course developer Lazette Gifford’s 2YN book online.

Yesterday on Pub Rants, Agent Kristin blogged about book trailers and posted one for her client’s new book Private Arrangements.

Now, this is a book that I do intend to read, and despite that, I managed only 41 seconds of the trailer.

Book trailers have been generating some hype lately, with many new books (especially in the Romance genre) putting up mini-movies.

I can just imagine the marketing genius that came up with this.

Marketing Genius #1: Dude, book sales are like, down. Waaay down. At least that’s what some statistics are saying.

Marketing Genius #2: For realz. People aren’t reading like they used to back in that mythical time we keep convincing ourselves existed. It’s the TV man, and them movies!

Marketing Genius #1: Totally. Oversaturation of a particular trend, and generally shitty novels being published en masse have nothing to do with it. But what do we DO about this problem?

Marketing Genius #2: I know! Let’s make a trailer! A BOOK trailer! People will be fooled into thinking it’s a movie, but really we’re promoting book buying! OMG!

Marketing Genius #1: Holy shit motherfucker, that’s brilliant! Let’s do this thang. Look out world! We’re about to blow your fucking minds!

Yes. I’m sure that’s exactly how the conversation went.

Except it won’t work. And I’m positive about this. Books are not movies, they’re books. And as revolutionary as that concept is not, I wish that whomever makes these marketing decisions on the behalf of authors (or the author’s themselves) would spend their marketing dollars elsewhere.

I read about 100 books per year. Some are recommended to me, some are loaned, some are bought. But before I make the decision to buy a particular book, the first thing I do is go on Amazon and read the reviews. Than I Google it, and read more reviews.

I do not go on youtube and search for a book trailer.

I only watch videos online for music, stupid people getting hurt/acting crazy and/or funny, and for sick, twisted barely-legal, porn. That’s it. And you have 10 seconds to catch my attention before I hit the Stop button.

Cheap marketing gimmicks will not sell a book to me.

I don’t get it.

Is it because I’m white? Or because I’m Canadian?

The LeBron James and Gisele Vogue cover for April is stirring up quite the controversy as some dissenting voices claim it promotes racism. Or something along those lines, I’m a little confused.

“According to the allegations, King James looks like King Kong clutching Fay Wray on the latest cover of Vogue, and the image… “conjures up this idea of a dangerous black man.”

What the fuck? I mean come on.

I know that Canada has its own racial issues as much as we love to promote ourselves as the most “multicultural” and “diverse” nation in the world when that reality only exists in Toronto and other big cities. But American race relations freak me right out in the way they’re portrayed in the media and through bullshit like this.  

If Lebron were clutching Oprah or Beyonce, would it still be racist? Or is it the image of the white woman juxtaposed with a big black man that makes people even take notice of this?

Lebron looks like he’s having fun; not like he’s about to bust a cap in my ass.

Creepy masked chick? Check!

Dead tree? Check!

Graveyard? Check!

Crows? Check! Check! Check!

Now to tweak and update the small stuff.

I know that complaining about the snow while living in Canada is an exercise in indulgence. But I’m going to do it anyways. Because it’s March 26th and we’re still buried in it.

I may have lived in Toronto for most of my life, but my ancestors come from a place where the average temperature in January is 10 degrees, and I don’t think I’ve ever fully acclimatized myself.

It’s really fucking cold up in this bitch, and unless temperatures return to normal soon, I may have to go on Prozac. Or Jack Daniels. And despite the romantic image of the drug addled, struggling writer, I’d really rather not.

I think the fact I’ve been putting off a real vacation for four years is the real culprit behind my bitterness. I’ve been meaning to backpack Mexico for the last couple of years, but it keeps getting put off. Last year’s excuse was messed up paperwork which would have prevented me from legally leaving Canada. This year’s excuse: I’m a broke mothafucker. Next year’s excuse? TBA! I’ll probably go and get myself knocked up or something equally stupid.

And from the Too Much Information file: I got my period this morning.

I should have worked from home today. I should have stayed inside where it’s quiet and cozy and peaceful with nothing but my computer,  my thoughts, and Jimmy the cat for company; but nooooo, I had to drag myself out here. I spent a good part of the morning trying really hard to pay attention in a meeting but really I was counting the number of times per minute my uterus tried to burst its way out of my abdomen.**

And I’ve noticed in the last week or so that the Canadian geese are starting to return from wherever the hell it is they go in the autumn. Poor things. They came here to frolick, and mate, and make little Canadian geese babies. They’re probably as shocked as I am by the injustice.

**14

That’s it. I’m done.

If I pick up another promising novel, slathered in good reviews by authors I respect, and reviewers who should know better, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

For what feels like the millionth time, I’ve put down yet another unfinished novel in frustration.

It can’t be me wrong, it just can’t.

And to think, I used to be that person who had to finish the book or movie no matter how unbearable. I guess my time has become too precious – although, I did sit through the entirety of Meet the Spartans last night, so maybe I should shut up.  I’m still a bit traumatized by the god-awfulness of it.

How awful is the slush pile if so much crap still manages to get through?

Earlier today as I was having a conversation with a friend about writing, the topic of the dreaded writer’s block came up. See, I’m one of those people who believe that writer’s block doesn’t really exist.

I do believe life can be overwhelmingly stressful and busy.

I do believe a particular scene(s) or character(s) can be challenging.

I do believe you can be a victim of your own fear.

And I’m firmly convinced that the last point is the one writers are often suffering from when they claim to be going through a bout of “writer’s block.”

You have this beautiful scene or image of a character in your head, or this great idea for a story; but after picking up that pen it can suddenly become as if you’ve forgotten even the basics. That beautiful thing in your mind’s eye turns awkward and daunting. You’re afraid of it, because you feel like you cannot do it justice.

As a general rule, my first drafts of anything and everything suck donkey balls. I cringe inwardly every time I reread a work in progress as it’s usually rife with common spelling and grammatical errors and cliches.

And I find it hard to quell that nagging inner critic which demands I stop my flow of writing and go back to edit the hell out of that paragraph. I have this inane fear of allowing this hypothetically less-than-perfect prose to continue existing in its deplorable state because somewhere along the line, I got this ridiculous idea into my head that it must be perfect right away. If it’s not flowing beautifully; if the character isn’t a fully developed, living and breathing entity, than the work itself is simply not good enough. Not now, not ever.

But I’m slowly learning to let go. I’ve discovered that it’s more important to get the words out, no matter how clunky the prose. It’s more important to not stop up that flow of ideas, because if you stop, the momentum can be lost forever. Get the words out on paper before attacking them line by line with Elements of Style.

So absolutely no editing until the work is done. It still drives me crazy. My left eye still twitches with the wanting. But I’m starting to come to terms with the fact that the first draft will never read the way I want it to.

And that’s just fiiiine! Really.

*twitch*

My motto used to be “do it all now; sleep when you’re dead.”

And oh boy did I try.

I was working a full-time, 9-5 job, as a secretary, part-time as an English Lit. tutor, attending 3 full courses at the University of Toronto, taking Real Estate courses towards my Realtor license, taking theatre courses, auditioning for theatre and film, conducting a Toronto-Cleveland  long-distance relationship, and trying to work on a novel and several short stories.

Everything. All at once.

Needless to say, that all fell apart in a very messy and pathetic manner, as I sobbed uncontrollably in my ex-boyfriends car one night after drinking way, way too much. I think I kept repeating “I just want ONE day off!” and screaming “Don’t touch me!”  whilst apologizing every two minutes.

Good times. Really.

That was a few years ago, I was fresh into my 20’s and ready to prove my family wrong by finally making a success out of myself in an effort make up for all the fear and procrastination and laziness that had made up my teenage years. But of course I went about it all the wrong way and got burned out in the end. Luckily I didn’t have a full-blown nervous breakdown — the drama in the car that one night proved to be the extent of my hysteria — but I still didn’t learn my lesson. I still tried to do everything. All at once. And I attributed my lack of success to my lack of discipline and effective time management.

Only now, in the past year or so, am I realizing the full extent of my childish stupidity. 

You can’t do everything at once because one of those things is bound to suffer. But you can do a few things.

And maybe it’s better to start with one thing and work real hard at it until the process becomes second nature, or at least more familiar and comfortable. Only then can you move on to the next. Only then can you be a success, because you’ve given your all to the one thing that mattered most at that particular time.

When I finally realized that, life became easier. I found full-time work as a copywriter (by luck, but they haven’t fired me yet) and I now get to work from home. I’m excited about expanding that business and getting more clients. I decided not to try and pursue a career as a writer and actor at the same time, but to focus on my novel and freelance work. After many, many false starts and pages of wasted prose and half-finished scenes and stories, I’m finally on track with my novel. I’m working at my old office as an internal auditor for extra cash, setting my own hours and days. And I’m happier. So very much happier.

 In a way, I still feel that sense of failure creep up on me every now and again, because I could have been doing this all earlier — if I had only known. Ah the ironic wisdom of a twenty-something looking back at her 19 year-old self! Hilarious.

And until I’ve achieved a certain level of success, I’ll always feel in some tiny part of myself like a failure. To be completely honest, until that first novel is published and I’m staring at my book in my own hands, I’ll probably still struggle with this inadequacy. And after that step is achieved, who knows what fresh fears and anxieties will surface to plague my over-analytical brain. 

Life was so much easier once upon a time when I was still scribbling stories that began “Once upon a time…”   

I was going to write a post today about novel-based films not always sucking when compared to the actual novels.

I was going to use The English Patient, written by Michael Ondaatje, and later turned into a 9-Oscar winning film by the incredibly talented Anthony Minghella as a perfect example of that fact.

And then today I learned that Anthony Minghella had died yesterday morning from internal haemorrhaging, mere days after undergoing surgery that was originally deemed a success. 

He was 54. He was one of our most talented directors; with such films as: ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply’; ‘The Talented Mister Ripley’, and the aforementioned ‘English Patient’, which is one of my favourite films, as well as one of my favourite novels.

Along with this tragedy, with have the death of Arthur C. Clark, at the ripe old age of 90, who was one of the most important science fiction writers of the last century.

Two creative minds. The same day.

Arthur C. Clark had almost 100 novels under his belt, and many short stories; including, The Sentinal, the short story that would later be turned into 2001: A Space Odyssey by Stanley Kubrick (yet another talented dead guy). He and Kubrick worked on the actual novel of the film together, which might also give pause to the whole novels adapted off films always suck theory.

I’ve never read anything by Anthony C. Clark. But now, I want too.

I wonder if that statement gives credence to the whole “more fame after death” thing?

R.I.P dudes, you’ll be missed.

A friend sent me this link to Joshua Palmatier’s LiveJournal and his Plot Synopsis Project.

Published authors have posted about their own plot synopsis writing teqniques; citing real examples. Very, very cool.