Manageable Mondays and Sewer Drain Mysteries

I’m happy. My Monday was not too Mondayish today, after all. I’d like to salute the power of positive thinking for that. It could have been a bad Monday. After all, when you wake up at your normal time and it’s still dark, that’s not a great incentive to get out of bed.

I don’t do well with Daylight Savings time. I’ve mentioned that before. As I said yesterday, you can change the clocks all your like but my internal clock KNOWS it’s all a big, fat, mean trick. I think I’d prefer it if, perhaps, we got to spring forward with the clocks at a more appropriate time than 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning. For example, how about we do it, say, at 3 p.m. on a Monday? Wouldn’t that be nice? One minute it’s 3 p.m. and you’re dragging but you still have 2 hours to go and then, boom!, the clocks skip forward and it’s 4 p.m. and there’s only an hour left!
You may wonder why I don’t say it should happen at 4 p.m. so that the 9-5’ers can just leave but, well, in my odd way of thinking, I think it might be harder for supervisors to just let you leave. If you do it at 3 p.m., it gives everyone an hour of looking at the clock, cheerfully counting down that final hour and it’s not so…sudden.

Hey, it makes sense in my head and that’s what’s important, right? Of course, since this won’t ever happen, it’s all theoretical anyway which means we’re stuck with the cruel trick of losing an hour ON A WEEKEND and then being abruptly awoken by our alarms on a Monday only to discover it’s still nighttime outside but we still have to get up.

It didn’t help this morning that I had two dogs that also did not want to get up and couldn’t understand why that horrible alarm clock went off so early and interrupted their sleep. Believe me, Rory and her Moaning Myrtle impersonation let me know that it was quite rude to disturb her and she did NOT want to get up.

But we did. I’m glad we did. The day, as such, has not been too bad for a Monday. It’s not sunny but it’s also not gloomy outside. It’s just grey with a side of brightness. My day has actually been busy which is rather nice on a Monday. It means that the day went by quickly and I didn’t have time to sit at my desk in a funk, wondering if the phone was going to ring.

Of course, I did sit in a bit of a funk. I felt like I didn’t really wake up all morning. I moved in slow motion and had trouble focusing for the first part of the day . However, thanks to far too much tea, coffee and Sprite Zero, by lunchtime I was mostly awake just in time to run home to spend 30 minutes with the dogs.

It’s nice to have a doggy diversion in the middle of the day. When I finished up my lunch, I went outside to see what the girls were up too. Sookie came bounding towards me in greeting which is always a lovely thing. Rory, however, was riveted to our storm drain.

I’m a little perplexed by this. She’s become absolutely fascinated not only with our storm drain but all of the storm drains along our street. It’s a little disturbing. Sometimes, after it rains, there is an odd banging from the drain in our garden and I can see why she and Sookie might want to investigate. Today, however, the drain was quite quiet. Yet Rory stood there, looking into it. When I went to see if I could see/hear anything, I couldn’t hear anything but I did notice that Rory was trembling.

This, of course, alarmed me. What was she seeing/hearing/smelling that had her rooted to the spot and afraid? I coaxed her too me and she backed up so that she could press herself into my bent knee for comfort but she still stared down into the drain.

I never did figure out what she was waiting for in that drain. With my vivid imagination, I confess I was a little alarmed in case Pennywise the Clown appeared. Yes, I’ve read/watched Stephen King’s It one too many times. Given that Rory is a) a dog, b) can’t read and c) has no comprehension of who Pennywise the Clown is, I don’t think that could possibly be that which fascinated her but I’m still curious.

My non-Pennywise theory is that there may have been a creature down there at some point. I’ve seen an elderly raccoon amble its way across the street and disappear down a storm drain so it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it tried to get up into our yard. I’m glad it didn’t. I have a feeling Sookie and Rory would like to think they could take on a raccoon but having had quite a bit of experience with raccoons in my life, those things can be quite vicious and I think it’d give the girls a run for their money.

I did finally manage to distract Rory away from the sewer. I’m sure that when we go for our evening walk, she’ll once again pull me towards each drain along our route but since she’s on a leash and can’t actually go down the drains, I’m not too worried.

When I went back to work after lunch, the afternoon passed quickly. We’re supposed to have heavy rain later on tonight so tomorrow is likely to be grey and soggy. I’m just glad that it held off today. Wet Mondays are not fun, they elude the power of positive thinking which is hard to get going on a Monday anyway.

Although, today it worked. Phew!

Happy Tuesday!

Let the Self-Publishing Revolution Begin!

Today was a Monday but it wasn't so bad. I think having a three day weekend helped. My boss was back from his vacation which was not as much fun as not having him in the office but he still seemed to be in 'vacation mode' so it wasn't so bad.

It also wasn't so bad as far as workload and coworkers went. I've had far worse days, let's put it that way.

Also, a coworker sent me a link regarding getting my novel published on the iPad. I've been waiting for Apple to make that option available to first time writers so I was excited to see it was finally available.

Of course, this led to a trail of pages, some of which were blogs, some were informational, as to how hard it was to actually get your book on the iPad if you're self-published.

One of the the blogs had a rather rude and snotty comment from someone who said something along the lines of, "what's the point of self-publishing? It's only for losers who can't get their books published in any other way."

My first reaction was anger. Then it was calm. I understood his initial reaction. As I've said on here before, the problem with self-publishing is that there's a stigma associated with it. Back in the days before it became so easy, self-published authors did tend to be those who couldn't get their books published in the traditional way.

I resisted self-publishing because I didn't want to be one of those people who published their own book because no one else would.

But you know what happened? I wrote a book that I knew was good. It was a timely, comical book that in the era of Sookie Stackhouse and the Twilight franchise, the era of 'chick lit' and entertaining fiction, it should have been easy enough for someone to say, "I want to read that."

I followed the traditional path. I sent queries to agents. I got nice, kind rejections this time around. The writing was good and the story seemed fun but they just didn't think I would work for their agency.

Then I became annoyed. From their point of view, I get it: A new writer, no credits to her name, a story that could be amusing but could also suck when, right now, everyone's looking for the next JK Rowling, Stephanie Meyer or Stieg Larsson. They want their Harry Potter, their Twilight, the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Here's my take on that: The reason there are JK Rowlings and Steig Larssons in the world is because there weren't any already out there. Some one, somewhere thought: "Hey, this looks interesting, maybe I should give it a chance."

But there aren't many agents out there doing that any more. Most of the big publishing companies are 'eating' the smaller ones. There are fewer and fewer chances for writers to get their books published. The interesting thing is that most of the time, unless you get SUPER lucky, even if they decide to publish your book, you still have to do the publicity yourself.

Of course, you could hire a publicist. I mean, if you're paying an agent 10%, the publisher a huge chunk of royalties and possibly a manager to help you figure out what the heck you're doing, what's another big chunk of change to try to get people to read it.

Or, you could do what I and so many other writers have done. You publish it yourself. There are no upfront fees. I went through Createspace. I pay for the proof copies. When I sell a book, they take their fee from the sale price which I set. If I don't sell any, they don't make anything.

Today, I received payment from Amazon for sales on the Kindle over the past month. I make less than 50 cents per sale on this version since I sell it for only $1.99. I made enough for me to say, "whoa! And I haven't done any publicity for this yet!"

It may not be enough for me to quite my job and live but it's enough for me to feel like people are buying and reading my book. I've had enough 'fan' emails for me to blush and feel proud that I've written something that people enjoy.

So, aside from the fact that I didn't wait a couple of years to have an agent read my query, then request my manuscript, then request edits, then try to approach publishers and, if I'm lucky, find one for me, what's the difference between me and someone who went the traditional route?

Is it validation? It used to be that you weren't a writer until you had a product that made money. Just see the blog I once posted in response to such a statement by literary agent, Nathan Bransford.

Now, it seems, even if you make money, you're still not a writer unless someone spins their roulette wheel of 'Lucky New Writer" and decides it's worth taking a chance on you. And then, what happens? You get a book published and unless you're someone who can be a bestseller, you're relegated to the shadows where your book dies. If you are a bestseller, you sign a contract and you promise to deliver so many books in such a time frame. Then, in my opinion, you begin to go downhill. Some of the most promising new writers can't follow up on their original success. Those that do still end up going downhill. They're expected to deliver and they write furiously and fast, to earn their paycheck and give the publishers and not necessarily their readers, a finished book. Sure, Stephanie Meyer, you can deliver Breaking Dawn in less than a year but, uh, did you read it? Jane Green? Your original chick lit was almost deeper than the surrounding stuff but now you're becoming Nicholas Sparks for a new generation. Jennifer Weiner, watch out- you used to be very moving. Now you're becoming cliche. Stephen King...I feel bad chiding you because you're one of the greats but, well, when you announce that you're retiring, RETIRE. From a Buick 8, Cell and Duma Key are all horrible faded shadows of the great stories you used to tell.

I could go on but I won't. My point is this: All 'great' writers were once "new" writers. They were unpublished once. Nowadays, we have the tools to put our works out there and while I admit my novel isn't as polished as if I had someone from Harper Collins editing it, at least it's the book I wrote, not some watered down version of the story I wanted to tell.

I know, I know. Where's the validation if I had to do it all myself. My validation is in my sales. It's in the reviews I have on Amazon.com. It's in the emails I get from complete strangers who loved my book. It's not on the scale of a bestseller but, you know what? It feels like it.

I'd like to take this opportunity to encourage other writers out there who feel like their bashing their head against a glass ceiling to take charge of their own writing. If you feel like it's good, if people already love it, try it. Use Createspace. Use Lulu. If you're scared of the commitment of printing the book, put it on the Kindle, the iPad, the Nook if nothing else. It costs nothing. People WILL read your work.

It's my dream to start a revolution. The agents and publishers hold the reigns right now but they're losing their grip. We don't need them to slow down a process in which they're becoming a relic. While I love books as much as the next person, I love reading even more. Sure, a literary agent knows their way around the industry but the industry is changing. The power is coming back into the hands of the writer, the creator of the product that is fueling them. Sure it's nice to have an official label on your book that says, "Hey, someone made me pay them a lot of my earnings of this book to get me here," but we don't need it.

Ok, so I realize some books shouldn't be published because they're not ready. But, honestly, given some of the rubbish that's making it to library and bookstore shelves these days, what's the difference. Do we need any more vampire novels, really? Yet each week in Barnes and Noble, there seems to be more.

I want to tell other writers that just because you did it yourself, doesn't make it any less valuable. It took me a while to realize I could admit this but I am an author. I have an Amazon page to prove it. In 100 years, I'll still have a book, somewhere, out there, published and it's unlikely someone will stop to scoff, "wait, it's self published. It must be crap!"

I need to get my name out there. I know this. But it's happening slowly. I'm part of a revolution and I'm proud to admit it. Agents can open doors, publishers can help you walk through them but if you can create the building yourself with doors that you actually design, isn't that better?

I'm proud to have published my book. I'm proud to be selling it. I'll keep pushing it, hoping to get more readers. It's not about the money. It's about getting your story out there.

And my story is just getting started.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

Happy Tuesday.

Writing as Identity: Money or Love?

Today did not begin well. I refuse to accept that as an omen that the day is doomed. I will, however, keep my smoke detector in my hall closet for a little while as a punishment for being so sensitive.

I burned my toast. The entire building now knows. In order to stop my smoke detector from making the piercing horrible noise that is still ringing in my ears an hour later, I had to quickly rip it off the ceiling and throw it in the closet. As I am not a giant, this involves standing on a chair. Unfortunately, the chair almost tipped. It did not, however, and I am taking that as a good sign.

I also got trapped by a train today. The tracks wind sleepily through town and it's inevitable that you have to cross them at some point. There was a train just sitting on the tracks almost the entire way through town and I had to go around. Fortunately, it gave me a chance to listen to more Green Day and nibble on my burned toast and contemplate life.

More specifically, it gave me a chance to contemplate my writing. I read an agent's blog yesterday that made me think a lot. The agent is Nathan Bransford, an agent who blogs fairly regularly. I'm not actually a huge fan of his, not only because he set the record for rejecting one of my queries- twelve minutes after I emailed it- but because, based on his blog, he tends to come across as a little superior and that sometimes rubs me the wrong way.

He had a blog a couple of days ago about "Writing as Identity" in which he said how unsettling he found it when people defined themselves as writers. By this, he was referring to the writers who say "I am a writer. It's who I am." These are the writers who claim that writing is like oxygen, that they cannot live without it. His claim is that people shouldn't define themselves by what they do in their spare time, for example, comparing it to someone who is enjoys reality TV but doesn't walk around claiming "They are a connisseur of reality TV." Well, no, Nathan because that would be both silly AND embarrassing.

However, while my first reaction was to be offended and angry at him, I stopped and thought about it. I know I set up this blog to talk about writing, to give me an outlet so I could write often and regularly yet...was I guilty of the charges he laid down? Am I self-indulgent enough to think of myself only as a writer and everything else secondary?

Given some of my posts on rejection and how personal it feels, I am guilty. Nathan says ofof these writers that, "They've stopped enjoying the writing process, and because writing is so wrapped up in their self-conception, they can't bear the pain of rejection and instead look outward for blame."

He might have a point. I do that at times. Hence the fact that I'm boycotting Amazon.com. I don't know how not to feel that I'm disappointing those characters who've charged me with telling their story. I'd say I'd like to be more businesslike about my writing and not make it such a personal thing but, well, what kind of writer would I be then? I used to dabble in journalism and I hated the impersonal nature of it. Anyone can use words to describe facts but not everyone can make those facts interesting and readable.

It's clear from his blogs that Nathan Bransford is a rational creature, one who thrives on the business side of being an agent rather than the creative side. There's nothing wrong with this except his job as an agent is to represent writers. Given some of the comments on his blog, there are definitely writers out there who write because they can, because they can earn money at it, writers who don't have any emotional tie to what they do. I find that fascinating; not because I can't do that but...I don't want to. I thought about it. I've done it. I hated it.

Believe me, I'd sometimes rather love to divorce myself from writing so that I could just do it but not care about it; it would be less draining and disappointing. But...then why would I do it? I like my job in software. I like my friends and family. I have a life outside of writing. But it's writing that gives me that passion, that thrill, that realization that makes me feel like I'm complete. I've had my ephiphany moment where I just knew. From then on, I wrote. I can almost hear Nathan groaning that this is exactly what he meant. I will say that while I could live without writing in my life, that it isn't the oxygen that keeps me going, it does make my life that much brighter, more enjoyable. People don't need sports but it doesn't stop people from dressing head to toe in their team colours, putting up posters and banners, drinking out of mugs while using a mouse-pad adorned with their teams-logo, does it? Sports enhance people's lives. Writing enhances mine. Try telling a die-hard Red Sox fan that their team means nothing, that it's just a stupid hobby. I dare you.

I do tell people I'm a writer sometimes. Most of the time, I don't bother unless it comes up in conversation. This blog is about as nametaggy as I get as to the fact that I'm a writer. I don't go to coffee shops with my laptop so people can see that I write. I don't pull out my notebook everytime I'm with friends and there's a silence so that they can see I'm a writer. I don't carry Stephen King's On Writing with me all the time even though I love that book.

Yet I can't stop my brain from constantly seeing stories in everything around me, hearing an idea from a song on the radio (or, in my case, my iPod). I can't stop myself from filing away news stories for future plot points. Sometimes it would be nice to be able to turn that off. I've actually tried and it doesn't work. I'm still figuring out how to steal something someone told me and work it into a story, even when I think I'm not thinking about writing.

Originally, Mr. Bransford referred to writing as a hobby. He changed that, I think because he realized that saying that was a wee bit condescending. Yes, writing is a hobby for me because it doesn't pay my bills. Yet since I've been watching the Food Network, I've started to love cooking. Yet don't go around thinking I'm a chef and I never will. I consider Mario Batali and Bobby Flay to be chefs just as I consider J.K. Rowling, Neil Gaiman and Stephen King to be writers. I consider Beethoven, Mozart, Green Day and Andrew Lloyd Webber to be composers and musicians. You know why? Because that's what they are. I guarantee in all of the cases I cited, those people enjoy it, they do it because they have no choice: it's their path in life.

I'm not arrogant enough to suggest I'm in the same league as J.K. Rowling, Neil Gaiman and Stephen King. Yet...is it because they get a paycheck that we get to say "they're writers?" Is it because they are fortunate enough to get paid for it that they have the permission to be a writer? Or is J.K. Rowling really just a former unemployed single mother who happened to write one of the best children's books and become a multi-millionaire because of it. Is it always about the money?

It would make sense that to agents like Nathan Bransford, that would be the case. It's his job to get writers to the point where they're making money so that he can make money. Yet...where is that line? I suppose he has a point that stamp collectors don't go around claiming to be a stamp collector and making that their identity. Reality-TV watchers don't claim that's who they are. I don't deny that there is a line between claiming to be a writer and actually being one. I am a firm believer that a writer has to write to be a writer. They can't be a coffee-shop dabbler who thinks they are a writer but doesn't do more than read books about it, make outlines and tell people about it. A real writer just writes because we love it. So what should we call ourselves? People-who-have-full-time-jobs-but-have-this-horrible-need-to-go-home-and-make-up-stories? Should I call myself a story-maker-upper-hobbyinst instead of a writer? Or am I allowed to say I'm a writer because...I am? Does making money at what you love grant you the title and identity or is it the thing itself?

I suppose it depends on how you look at it. I like my way better. Naturally. I suppose Mr. Bransford would probably argue that I am one of those writers that he criticized and the reason I'm writing this is because he rejected me. I would argue that's not the case. I just think there should be two sides to every argument. This is mine.

Happy Wednesday!

Random Musings on a Friday

I've said it before and I'm saying it again: I'm glad it's Friday. As I said yesterday, the week has gone quickly but I'm so very ready for a weekend.

I still don't seem to be able to sleep. I'm not sure why. I wake up every night at approximately 2:38 a.m. and cannot get back to sleep. I think I might have read Stephen King's Insomnia one too many times because I thought about looking out the window to see if there were men creeping around with scissors outside. If you haven't read the book, you probably won't get that but it actually is a very good book, one of my favourite Stephen King novels, as a matter of fact.

It's been an odd week. I've been trying to wean myself away from the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award message boards. There's an issue that is infuriating me and I'm trying to distance myself from it. I won't go into details other than to say that I hope next year, I hope Amazon implements a rule that if you make the top three finalists in the entire competion, you should not be allowed to enter the same novel again, no matter how much it's been edited. That is all I will say on the subject since I am fortunate and blessed enough to have been selected as a quarterfinalist and, having read some of my competition, I know that I would be extremely lucky to move onto the next round. There are way too many good writers out there. It's a good thing as a reader but as a writer, it's a tad intimidating.

As for the rest of the week being odd, I've newly discovered one slight disadvantage in moving back to the midwest: Allergies. I never had hayfever as a child and in the years before I left Indiana for Los Angeles, I had the sniffles a lot during the summer and would occasionally sneeze a lot if I spent too much time outside or around flowers. It was nothing that some Claritin wouldn't fix. During my years in L.A., the same thing happened, sniffles, sneezes but nothing too severe. Now I'm back, I've discovered that as much as I love springtime, it's not loving me too much. My sinuses seem to disagree with tree pollen and the Claritin isn't doing as well as usual. I'm hoping it's temporary and that as Spring progresses, my allergies will subside. Probably wishful thinking but I'm not going to let it interfere with my enjoyment of the flowers and trees. Now that it's not likely to snow much, I have to find something to wax poetical about, don't I?

Then there's my new neighbour who lives above me. She's very nice. She also happens to be the CEO of our new company. I have to confess...it's a little intimidating. Now I have to think about what I'm doing because we have thin walls and ceilings. Not that I'm doing anything incriminating but I do have rather a tendency to talk to myself and my characters. Occasionally, I forget that my windows are open or that I'm standing on the balcony outside. I also occasionally do have a one-person-flailing-dance party in which I burn off excess energy by having a dance. That's fun. I usually end up losing my balance. Inevitably, it involves thuds.

I probably don't really need to worry about it. It's just one of those factors I have to take into consideration. When you have anonymous neighbours, it's easier to not worry. When you actually know a neighbour, it's a little different. I don't even see her that often, only when she's walking her dog.

Speaking of walking (and in the most random transition manner), I saw a girl walking today in flip-flops. Now, I love flip-flops. They're comfy...in the summer. It was 36 degrees outside this morning, my car said so. I couldn't help but wonder what on earth made her think flip-flops were a practical foot choice. If she were dressed to match, I suppose vanity would have played a part but she sort of looked like she had bundled up to stay warm which is why I'm baffled by her choice of footware. However, I digress....

...I seem to digress a lot, particularly on Fridays. Thus, I apologize for being somewhat random today. As always, I thank you for staying with me and reading my blog.

Have a great weekend.

The Long and Tedious Story of Edgar Sawtelle

I won't complain about it being Monday. I think, by now, you've realized that's a given on a Monday morning. Of course, it doesn't help that today is actually a holiday and a lot of people don't have to work. I have to work. Can you feel me trying not to complain?

Still, I did have a rather nice weekend. On Friday, I discovered that I would, indeed, have a job in the future as the buyer of our company wants to keep almost everyone on. I am relieved. I won't lie and say that this is my dream job because my dream job is to write and get paid for it. Yet I like this place. I like my coworkers. My 'new' position is a little different than the one I have now but I think it'll be a good change. After four months of not exactly knowing what my future employment situation will be, it's such a relief that I don't think I've completely absorbed it yet.

Thus, I went into Valentine's Day (or, as some of my slightly more bitter friends call it "Single Awareness Day") with a positive attitude. I had a lovely day, I treated myself to a movie, went grocery shopping and then came home to relax. I chose to watch a perfectly dreadful movie while I was relaxing. Of course, I didn't know it was dreadful though given that it was based on a Nicholas Sparks' novel, i did have my suspicions. It was Nights in Rodanthe. I rented it because I like Richard Gere and usually like Diane Lane. Little did I know that even those two can't save a syrupy plot. Also, if you're familiar with Mr. Sparks' writing, you will know that he likes to make people cry by killing someone. I would like to point out to Mr. Sparks that he's used this technique one too many times by now and I'm onto him. I did not cry, in fact, I was irritated because halfway through the film I thought, "I wonder which one will die." I probably spoiled it for you. I'd say I'm sorry but, honestly, I'm doing you a favour. Really. You want a romantic movie? Watch An Officer and a Gentleman, Love Actually or Casablanca.

I also finished reading a book that I've been trying to finish for three weeks. I usually read books quickly. Not this one. The book is called The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski. It was a bestseller, Oprah recommended it and it has a posititively glowing review from Stephen King on the back cover. As you'll probably recall, Mr. King and I have seen eye-to-eye on several books in the past. Unfortunately, not with this one.

Edgar Sawtelle was one of those books I sort of wanted to throw across the room when I was done but, because I was sitting in the bath when I finished it, I didn't bother. Just as a quick plot summary, it's sort of a modern day retelling of Hamlet. Edgar Sawtelle is Hamlet except he was born unable to speak. He communicates with sign language. His family has bred a new species of dog that is super smart and 'chooses' its own path and actions. I think most of the characters from Hamlet are represented by dogs in Edgar Sawtelle. Anyway, basically, Edgar's uncle kills his dad and seduces his mother to take over the family business. Just like in Hamlet.

Edgar runs away but comes back. That's the gist of the plot. If you've read Hamlet, it's not hard to figure out the tragic end of the story.

The problem is with this book it that it doesn't say anywhere that it's based on Hamlet. The only reason I figured it out is because I've read that play and had to analyze it countless times for classes. Thus, it sort of made sense when the story veers briefly into supernatural territory and mystical territory. Yet, it doesn't excuse the ridiculous amount of waffling prose and sheer volume of description. If ever a book was in sore need of an editor, it's this one. I'm not kidding when I say that at least half of the book is lyrical description of Wisconsin in every season or talking about the dogs. Also, it resorts to allowing the dogs' to 'narrate' a part of the story. For me, that's a huge turnoff in a book. Very occasionally, this works. If it's a story solely about a dog, then...maybe. If it's a kid's story then...definitely. But with this one, it was so out of place. But then, since the dogs were Super Intelligent dogs, maybe it made sense.

You may wonder why I kept reading. Mostly because I promised my mother I would. You see, she read it and felt like she 'didn't get it'. She didn't get the Hamlet aspects which is no way her fault. So I said I'd read it. I did. It's just that halfway through, I started feeling like I did when I move apartments. You know the feeling, right? It's like, in the beginning, it seems like a fun idea, you find a new place and you can't wait to move in. Then you realize that you have to pack. In theory, that always seems easy. Then you start doing it. Halfway through the first room, you realize exactly how much work it's going to be and you sort of want to abandon ship and stay where you are but you know it's too late, you've already committed. Yet every box you pack after that realization takes forever and ever and by the time you're done, you're exhausted and you're trying hard not to think about unpacking all those boxes.

Yes, for me, Edgar Sawtelle was like moving house. I thought it'd be a good new book. Then I started reading and the further I got, the harder it seemed to get through but I'd promised to read it and, truth be told, wanted to see what the fuss was about. Now that I'm done, I'm exhausted and feel like it took forever. I will not be rereading it. I think Stephen King said in his glowing review that he was envious of someone who picked this up for the first time because it was such a rewarding read. Also, he would be rereading it. Good for him.

It's books like this that make me wonder if I'm cut out to be an author. These are the books that are getting published, books that are symbolic and full of pages and pages and pages of desciption. I'm not saying Mr. Wroblewski can't write because he can. His descriptions are, at times, beautiful and poignant. Yet there's so much of it that I found my brain wanting to skip huge chunks to get to the story but, honestly, there wasn't much story to get to when you took away the prose. I like to describe things. I know I do that here, in this blog, a little too much probably. It's fun to find new ways to paint the world around us in words. Yet, for me, there has to be a story and it's the story that should fill the pages. The story is the outline and the drawing, the description is the colour. To me, Edgar Sawtelle is more like modern art, big, giant blocks of colour with no distiguishable form. I'm not a fan of modern art. I like my paintings to be of something. To have to try to find the symbolism in splashes of red and black paint is too much work.

I tried to write yesterday and I couldn't. I sat in front of a blank screen and nothing flowed. I'm frightened when that happens because it's so rare. I wonder if maybe I can't write anymore, if it's deserted me. I know part of it is because I'm frustrated about treading water as a writer. I have eight novels and am having no luck with agents. Reading Edgar Sawtelle didn't help because I didn't get it. I can't write like that. If I did, I'd feel like I'd done something empty. I do that a lot with writing. I find myself writing huge pages of description and hating the fact that the story is so weak. Yet if this is the type of book that Stephen King, Oprah Winfrey and countless other critics endorse, maybe I am doing something wrong. After all, it was a best seller.

Yet, then again, so was Breaking Dawn and you know how I feel about that. I suppose I can just hope that I'm ok the way I am and that, one day, I'll have my books out there in the world for some blogger to criticize on the web like I'm doing right now.

I suppose it's all about interpretation and preference. I usually enjoy modern retellings of old stories. I just tend to have them be a little less descriptive I will say, however, that had I stolen the plot of Hamlet like David Wroblewski did in The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, you better believe that I'd acknowledge William Shakespeare in my 'thanks' section. Mr. Wroblewski did not.

I know I'm coming across as bitter. I can't lie and say I'm not. Whenever we 'don't get' something, it makes us a little bitter. I think because it also makes us feel a little dumb, that maybe we're not smart enough to understand the full depth of such a deeply moving book. Then I start to get bitter all over again because a book shouldn't be written with such depth that it makes a normal reader feel dumb.

It's a vicious cycle.

Happy Tuesday.

Stephen King vs. Stephanie Meyer

So, yesterday, there was a slightly 'big' controversy in the writing world. I say 'big' because depending on how much you care about either author involved, it may have slipped by unnoticed. However, if you're like me and you like to read, there's very little chance you haven't heard of either Stephen King or Stephanie Meyer.

Now, for those of you new to my blog, it's no secret that I dislike the writings of Stephanie Meyer immensely. Ok, so dislike might not be a strong enough word based on what I've written in the past. I think it's pretty obvious that I think the Twilight books are badly written rip-offs of much better author's works. I've been nice in giving Meyer respect for at least getting young people to read. Although now I might have to amend even that nicety a little because, frankly, the obsessee's of Twilight aren't exactly going out to the library or Borders and looking for other books. They're just rereading all of Meyers' books over and over again. There comes a point where that stops being reading and just starts being scary.

In case you haven't heard of Stephanie Meyer, the Twilight series is a four-part series of novels about a perfect boy who turns out to be a vampire and a very normal girl who inexplicably becomes the desire of the vampire. The series encompasses themes such as being so in love, you're willing to kill yourself because your love left you. Also, a theme that love conquers all, especially life because Bella, the heroine, spends three and a half books pining for Edward, our hero, to kill her so she can join him in eternity. She's seventeen. She has a loving family. Yet she still wants to turn herself into a bloodsucking beauty just so she can stay with Edward. Then she eventually marries the vampire, has his baby in an extremely gruesome manner and gets turned into a vampire because it was the only way to save her life. Oh, also, Bella's best friend (who started out as a werewolf but then became a Shapeshifter because Meyer couldn't make up her mind) is in love with Bella so there's a love triangle going on. Except when Bella and Edward's baby is born, the terribly-named Renesme, Jacob falls in love with baby because that's what shapeshifters/werewolves do- they imprint on a person, no matter how old, and mate for life.

Ok, so that might be a teensy bit editorialized but, I promise, the plotlines in the paragraph above are all true. Every last one of them.

Anyway, so that's a little about Ms. Meyer. Now, about Stephen King. Yesterday, a quote was published from him regarding Stephanie Meyer for an interview he did with USA Today:

"The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn," he said. "She's not very good."

Naturally, Meyer fans are in an uproar. The mud is flying, people are accusing Stephen King of being the pot to Meyers' kettle, i.e he can't write either.

I beg to differ. Ok, so Stephen King's books of late haven't been particularly gripping. Ok, so he said he was going to retire a couple of times but...hasn't. And yes, his earlier books were WAY better than his later ones (which may or may not have been linked to his alcohol/substance abuse problems from back in the day.) I'm not saying that he was a better writer when he was drunk or high but....well....those books were better. However, Stephen King has some amazing credits to his name. He can also write and he can write well.

Personally, I can't even fathom how people can even dare say that King can't write any better than Meyer. To say so is almost a crime. Whether you like horror or fantasy or not, doesn't mean that Stephen King can't spin an amazing tale. When he wants to, King's writing can be beautiful and poetic. His characters are three dimensional and compelling. He can make you laugh with a simple phrase such as "he stared at him as though he'd just suggested he use the Arc of the Covenant as a pay toilet". That may be slightly misquoted but it's one of my all time favourite literary quotes. I think it might be from It but I actually don't know. All I know is that it stuck with me.

I'm not saying that Stephen King is perfect. After all, my mother, who used to read his books and enjoy them can no longer read his works because he was arrogant enough to write himself into the last of his Dark Tower series. I admit, this was a gutsy move. I actually didn't mind that at all, I had more of an issue with the syrupy, sugary ending he gave his Susannah character. With that, he let me down, proving that even the toughest, most brutal writers can give in to sentiment. Stephen King: if you're going to kill two of my favourite characters from the Dark Tower books, do not DARE to try to bring them back for a happy ending. I mourned them both and was ok with that. Bringing them back was cheating and it should never have happened.

Yet if you look at Stephen King's record vs. Stephanie Meyer, I don't think anyone can question the fact that King is the much better of the two authors. For one thing, have you looked at his sales figures? Secondly, have you read his books? My favourite is still Black House which was a joint effort with Peter Straub but, as a King fan, I can see his writing and his influence on the book and it's brilliant. The Waste Lands, the third of the Dark Tower series, is one of the best fantasy books ever written, in my opinion.

Yet it's not a question of who's the better writer. That's obvious. Also, I think King was absolutely right to declare J.K. Rowling a far superior writer to Meyer because she is. I am sick to death of the Twilight vs. Harry Potter debate. It's like comparing Star Wars to Starship Troopers. They might both be entertaining but one is a cinematic classic...the other is a piece of crap that might entertain but at the end of the day, has giant bugs and some terrible acting.

I suppose I'm just happy that, once again, Stephen King has seconded an opinion I've had for a while. He did that with Dan Brown's DaVinci Code, calling it a piece of "dreck". I'd been calling it that for ages. It's nice to have someone who usually writes rather well not afraid to say what he thinks instead of patting Stephanie Meyer on the head and saying "good girl" instead of saying "you're a bad writer who ripped off Anne Rice."

And, as a writer, it's also nice to feel validated. I used to wonder how Stephanie Meyer got past the rejection letters since her writing is so....mediocre. Then I found out a friend of her's was a writer and hooked her up with an agent. Some of us aren't that lucky. We keep writing and our writing improves but we have no published friends.

Yet at least there are published authors like Stephen King to stand up for good writing until we can get our start. And, for that, I say thank you, Mr. King. I'll even consider reading some of your newer books again.

Happy Thursday.

Why I Once Would have Loved Twilight: The Obsessive Nature of Captain Monkeypants

I've always been a creature of phases. And I don't mean that like I'm a werewolf or anything but, rather, that I've always had a bit of an obsessive personality. Ever since I was a child, I've had a tendency to get stuck on something and it becomes my most favourite thing in life.

For example, one of my earliest obsessions was with a British children's author named Enid Blyton. As an avid reader anyway, I discovered that she had hundreds of books. They were books about boarding schools, fantasy lands that could be found at the top of trees, child detectives, mysteries and even had my most favourite character: Noddy. Noddy was a little elf-like thing whose best friend was the grumpy Big Ears. I used to call him "Biggy Ears" before I knew better. I absorbed Enid Blyton's books like a sponge: I used to go to the library and come home with a stack of five books, all by her. I wanted to go to boarding school, to have midnight feasts, to do all the things her characters did. Actually, I've always had a sneaking suspicion that J.K. Rowling, author of Harry Potter, also read her share of Enid Blyton when she was younger. There are definitely some good Blyton-esque scenes in her books, especially the earlier ones before the world of Hogwarts got too dark.

Anyway, my obsession got to the point where, I believe, a teacher even told my mother that I should probably read something else to give me some variety. You see, I didn't know it then but Enid wasn't, um....a good writer. She tended to use the same words over and over and being as young as I was, I didn't realize how dated her books were, even when I was a child.

Sadly, I got my hands on some Enid Blyton books fairly recently, books that I'd loved as a child about St. Clare's school. I was horrified. They were terrible. They were full of terms like "fiddlesticks" and "golly gosh" and they were absolutely horrendously written. Needless to say, I was mildly crushed that such a staple of my youth wasn't the paragon I believed her to be. Yet she'd given me an impetus to read voraciously as a young 'un and there was value in that.

My obsessions continued. They veered in music in which I am now sort of embarrassed to admit I was a huge Wham! fan and was in love with George Michael. Ok, I'm more than sort of embarrassed. Hey, I was ten. We didn't know he was gay then. My best friend and I would had recorded two Wham! videos- "Careless Whisper" and "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" (and yes, ok, I know technically "Careless Whisper" was a solo effort by George but that's irrelevant to my story). We would run home at lunch EVERY DAY and watch them. My poor mother- she had to suffer through that. Sorry, mum. Really.

From Wham! I moved on bouncing from films to television to books and back to music. I went through a heavy metal period in my teens, wearing the black band shirts and thinking I was cool because I liked hair bands. Again, hindsight is 20-20 but at the time, they were a metaphor for my painful awkward teen years. My friends and I would have lotteries to divide up who had 'custody' of a band for the week. Yes, again....I was an unhappy teen for a while but, then again, show me a happy one. As teens, we all think that we're misunderstood and unliked by our peers. It's only fifteen years later and you realize that all those people you thought hated you really were just as messed up and befuddled by life as you and suddenly they all want to be your Facebook friend.

Uh, sorry...I digress. After that phase, I changed friends. I think it's because I suddenly realized that life really didn't suck and I was just a dork in a black shirt listening to music from men more effeminate then me. I made new friends and started to listen to happier things like Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals.

It was a new phase. That one lasted me a while. During that phase, I also went through an Anne Rice phase in which I loved vampires again. I've always liked vampires but Anne Rice made them more romantic and less, you know, fangy and bloody. Phases can overlap, you know.

Since then, I've probably had a dozen more phases. I went through a huge Buffy the Vampire Slayer phases but, then again, that one is still ongoing merely because Joss Whedon, the writer and creator of the show is a genius and I will follow his creativity wherever he goes because he always keeps me amused, spellbound and fascinated by his ability to write and create such original stuff.

You may wonder why I'm telling you all this. My snarky answer is that it's my blog, I can tell you what I like. Surprisingly, however, I do have a point. This whole reverie was sparked by a visit to a bookstore this weekend in which I saw two teenage girls grabbing several copies of Stephanie Meyer's Twilight books and literally being so excited you could see them jumping up and down.

Surprisingly enough, given my past rants and blogs about Ms. Meyer, this isn't actually a tirade against her and her mediocre books. It's mostly because when I saw those teens being that excited over a book, I could relate to it. Maybe the reason I hate those books so much is because I know, as a teen, I, too, would have wanted to be Bella Swan with her sparkled-skin, bronze-haired hero to save her from her mundane life. I would have felt catharsis in Bella's unhappiness too. So I can't even mock them as I normally would. Mostly, I'm excited that they are that excited over a book. Ok, so I wish it was someone more deserving like Neil Gaiman, Celia Rees, J.K. Rowling or even Stephen King but, well, at least they're excited over a book of some kind.

The only thing that I wonder, especially as I surf the pages of the internet, is how those Twi-hards are going to feel in a few years. At the moment, every entertainment site I read likes to talk about the sequel to the blah Twilight movie and who will play who and if the new director will be good. With each online news story, there is room for comments and that space is filled with devoted love from Twi-hards about how amazing the movie will be, how much Robert Pattinson resembles the Edward in their head and all of that. Yes, I read them. I used to be a quasi-journalist- I'm a firm believer in reading the good as well as the bad.

The comments are often written in that annoying shorthand used for text messaging, so fluidly done that it's obviously a teen. They love their Twilight. They love Stephanie Meyer. They love the books so much that they've read them multiple times.

There's nothing wrong with that. Whatever gets 'em through the day.

Yet, as I mentioned, in a few years, when those devoted fans are a little better adjusted to life, when the awkward teen years are behind them and they find themselves becoming adults, will they really be able to go back to Twilight and see the same beauty and brilliance they see now? Or will it become one of those slightly embarrassing obsessions that got them through middle school or high school but now needs to be forgotten?

I can't answer that because I don't know. What I do know is that when I was fourteen, I read The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. I fell in love with the book. I read it and reread it. I memorized the opening. I wondered what would happen if I met Ponyboy. I watched the movie. It wasn't great but I was willing to overlook that because there were Sodapop, Ponyboy and Johnny on the screen.

I reread that book a few years ago. I get why I loved it. It's the tale of a teen who doesn't fit in but eventually, after some crappy experiences, realizes that he has to stay true to himself. Something like that, anyway. I don't know why I could relate to it. I was from an unbroken, nicely stable, loving middle-class family- completely the opposite of any of The Outsider's characters. Yet I also cringed a little that I'd loved it as much as I had. I recognized that value it gave me in my teens but, as an adult, like any youthful obsession, I couldn't remember why I'd loved it to the point of obsession.

I suppose, maybe, The Outsiders was my Twilight. Minus the sappy romance and drippy descriptions, of course. I know now, having the hindsight and something resembling wisdom, that had I loved Twilight in my teens, it would now be one of those shelved memories along with Def Leppard, Bon Jovi and crushes on skateboarders who should have bathed more often. I'd be slightly embarrassed that I loved it but in a way, it made me who I am, for better or for worse. I like who I am now and that means everything. I hope those Twilight fans have a similar experience.

Sorry for the long blog but thanks, as always, for reading. Happy Wednesday.

In which I Tried to be Nice but Failed Miserably (Sorry, Stephanie Meyer)

I promise I'm going to try to hold back from complaining about anything related to Twilight, Stephanie Meyer or anything resembling syrupy, unoriginal, annoying vampire fiction. At least for today. I think I need to read something else that's really bad; then again after I read The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown that sent me on a rant that still isn't quite over, even though it's been several years since I read it. To be fair though, Angels and Demons, the prequel to The Davinci Code. was much worse. I mean, that one had the self-proclaimed 'Harrison Ford in Tweed' hero, Robert Langdon falling from a high flying helicopter and he escaped with nary a bruise.

Here's a confession though: Sometimes I read Dan Brown's fiction because it's so bad, I relish it. There's still a couple of his books I haven't read and I'd like to think I can restrain myself. It shouldn't be too hard. After all the last one I read was so silly, I can't believe it got published. It was something like Digital Fortress or something. There's a couple of them that sound the same. All I know is that he started writing the book with a female heroine who was supposed to be smart but she ended up getting pushed to the sidelines because the men around her were much smarter. It was bad. Though the book had one of my all-time favourite "Don't Write Like This" phrases: "Her olive gaze was keen." To this day, I'm not quite sure whether he meant she had green eyes that turned everything around her green and keen or whether she had mysteriously replaced her eyeballs with pimento stuffed olives. Both of them make for an interesting visual, you have to admit.

Other than the Strictly Research Harlequin books I read, I haven't read anything bad since Breaking Dawn. I've read good books. I don't know if that's because I've just picked good books since then or because that book was so atrocious that everything else pales in comparison.

At the moment, I'm reading a popular fiction book: The Time Traveler's Wife. I wasn't sure about it at first. The time traveling was a bit confusing in the beginning but then it evened out and it got interesting. I also wasn't sure about it because I was afraid it was going to be some silly, too fictional to be real love story. Not that there's anything thing wrong with a love story but if the lovers in question don't at least have a couple of scenes where they're ready to throw knives at one another, it's not realistic to me. Then again, I am the person who couldn't get through Wuthering Heights. Talk about a couple of drips. They actually probably would have thrown knives at each other, come to mention it. Most of the time, it seemed like that hated each other. I think it was one of those grand passions that are so famous in fiction. Unfortunately, they were both so despicable, I really wished they'd both just ride off into the moors and get eaten by the Blair Witch or something.

Um, yeah, Captain Monkeypants may still be feeling a little snarky. Sorry about that.

Back to The Time Traveler's Wife. It was a loaner from a good friend who insisted I finish it. So I perservered even though I don't do well with the concept of time travel. To me, it's the same level of confusion as concentrating while trying to brush my hair in the mirror. I'm not terribly good at the whole reverse image thing. I get befuddled. Time travel befuddles me. All that paradoxical stuff in which future people can travel back and talk to past people but not be seen by their present people or whatever...it's all rather perplexing. It's one of those things I'd rather be perplexed by rather than have someone try to explain it. Like all things I don't understand, it's magic. That's good enough for me.

But this book isn't confusing now I'm into it. I'm intrigued. I'm almost done and I think I might have figured out how it's going to end and if I'm right, I don't think I'm going to like it but I might love it. I confess, sometimes I'm a skipper. This means that I cheat, I skip to the end of a book because I can't wait to see what happens. I'm trying to be better about that lately so I'm not skipping to the end of this book.

The reason I might not like it is that it's not going to be a completely happy ending. I might love it because if I'm right, it means the author did a brilliant thing in placing an almost throwaway scene strategically towards the beginning of the book and I almost didn't think anything of it. I love it when that happens. I love that I'd have to read the second time to see if knowing the ending spoils the book. I'm weird like that, I suppose but I love to reread a good book, particularly one with an excellent ending.

Endings are hard for writers. There are some writers I enjoy who cannot write a decent ending to save their life. Stephen King comes to mind. He falls into the trap of building it up so much that the ending is almost a complete letdown because there's nowhere to go. I think It is the best example of that. I loved that book until the end. The flashbacks were clever, the story built up, it was creepy and scary and then when you found out that the It in question was really just a glorified giant spider, it was a bit of a letdown. Pennywise the Clown was WAY creepier. Dean Koontz is also pretty bad at endings. I think horror writers have it hardest because creating the horror is much easier than explaining it. After all, it's really just a variation on the old saying that there's power in a name. There's a power in knowing in a horror novel. Once you know what the Big Creepy is, it's far less creepy. It becomes an object that can be confronted because it is known. It's the not knowing that's the scariest thing of all.

Stephen King's son released a novel fairly recently. His name is Joe Hill and the novel is Heart Shaped Box. For a first time novel, it was actually quite a good read. It definitely had some moments of creepiness. When he released it, he didn't publicize who he was but one look at his photo on the back cover and it was pretty obvious to anyone who spent vast amounts of their teenage years reading Stephen King novels that the two were related. They look extremely alike. It wasn't a mystery. Joe has a lot of similarities in his writing to the earlier Stephen King. I can't say it was the best horror novel I read but as a ghost story, it's definitely worth reading. But I will admit, the ending of that wasn't anything I really remember. I remember the hero and his unlikely love. I remember the ghost. I remember how the ghost came to being and I remember being very sad for the dogs. I just don't remember the ending very well. That's probably not a good sign.

I won't lie and say I'm great at endings either. They're hard. Really hard. The more you write the characters and the longer you spend with them, the harder it is. I've written eight novels now. Of those eight, there are five that are a series. I spent a couple of years with the main characters, my boys as I like to refer to them: John, Michael and David. They're all wonderful, even when they're evil and they do bad things. I killed one of them. Actually, no, I killed two of them. That was hard. I'd say that was a spoiler because nothing is ever what it seems, especially when I'm making up the details.

But the hardest part was writing the last book in the series and realizing that their story was done. Though I knew how it would end, getting there took a long time. I've rewritten the ending several times and I don't think I'm 100% happy with it. It needs to be edited more. It needs to be tidied up. It needs to be tighter. But I couldn't quite let go of them because I was afraid that would be it. Those boys would leave me and I'd have to move on.

Those boys haven't left me though. They're in my head all the time. I call it my literary schitzophrenia. They've been joined by a couple of other characters who've stuck with me but whose ending I had no trouble with. I usually don't start to write towards the ending until I know what it will be. Sometimes I know the ending before I know the beginning. Other times, I think I know the end but my characters tell me otherwise and I'm at their mercy.

I'd love to share my books with the world. I've dabbled with query letters but I haven't really jumped in feet first. I want those boys I wrote to get out into the world. I want them to grab the readers the way they grabbed me, their tale of good and evil, friendship and brotherhood and the sometimes brutal way they have to act to carry out their purpose in life. And I love how they take that purpose in life and stomp all over it.

But when I think about jumping in feet first, I think about poor Stephanie Meyer. She might be rich but there are always going to be people like me, brutally stomping on the ending to her Twilight saga and ranting about what a pile of crap it is. I'd like to think she was terrified to let the world read that, that it meant so much to her she almost didn't want to publish it because her heart was in that novel. But I've read it and as brutal as it sounds, there is no heart in there. To me, Breaking Dawn is just the self-indulgent whim of a writer who stopped remembering to let her characters tell the story and forced them into submission so she could write the ending she'd always visualized instead of the one that belonged to the book.

So, though I planned on finishing The Time Traveler's Wife tomorrow, I think I may stretch it out. The ending isn't too far off now and if it's anything like the rest of the book, it's going to make me think. Against my expectations, I like the characters and I like how unconventional they are. I especially like that though the time traveler and his wife are in love, they fight and argue like real people. I like thinking I know how it's going to end but knowing I might be wrong. I just hope that I'm not wrong about how good it's going to be. Endings are hard, in every sense of the word. But sometimes they can be as good as a beginning when it leaves you with a hope, a thought and a memory of how much it meant to have it, even for a little while. It's true for writing and it's true for life. It's always hard to say goodbye.

On that note, it is time for my ending for now. I know I said I'd be nice and not rant about Stephanie Meyer but, well, like I said, I can't always plan for how I write. It just happens. And I said I'd try. Clearly even the best of intentions go awry sometimes. I'll try to read something else awful so I can move on. Recommendations are greatly appreciated.

Happy Thursday, everyone.