The Bitter Quill

noreply@blogger.com (L. Scarlet) — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 14:59:00 +0000

There's this weird thing called time. I don't understand it; I only know that it seems to sneak up on you, and that one day, you get old, and you start thinking that one year isn't so long after all — one year is a passing moment, a blink, another tomorrow like how today was just yesterday, and won't even be today that much longer. When I started this blog, well, I don't actually remember what I was doing. Like most people, I probably got caught up in the craze. That and everyone kept telling me if I want to publish, I need to blog. I stopped writing it after a short period because, well, that I do remember. I'm lazy and busy, and the combination means I'm only good at juggling so far as there are only two or three balls in the air. I had the best intentions. But you know how the saying goes (if you do e-mail me or post it here, because I forgot it). So, time . . . Four full books and two half books into my writing career, a couple years worth of magazine articles, a zillion near misses, pages of positive agent feedback but no agent, and increasingly itchy fingers, still hasn't found my books a home. That is, all but one, and that one, I'm almost embarrassed to admit, I e-published my self, under a fake name (and if you read it, you'll know why). The tie in? A surprising number of years have passed since I started this blog, yet it really does seem like yesterday, and putting two and two together: passing time + not publishing + ignoring blog = same place, no difference (I never was very good at math, sorry), I've decided I better give it at least one more try (my former 'one more tries' only lasted one or two blogs at a time, alas, but I promise to try to do better). So, reboot starting today, more tomorrow.

Writer's Ego Or Four Letter Word?

noreply@blogger.com (L. Scarlet) — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 23:31:00 +0000

I’ve written two books. Neither published. The first one took me six laborious years, the other an easy eight months. People ask me how I did it – actually sat down and wrote some 250,000ish words. I’m pretty sure they’re not really interested in the answer, much less interested in the idea that I even wrote a book. But you know, people always like to pretend they care. And so, I’m going to tell you.

The first book, well, I strove for greatness – like most of us probably. An epic piece of historical/literary/Pulitzer prize-winning prose like the world’s never seen. Of course that’s not at all how the novel ended up, and acknowledging that was about as difficult as purposely sitting bare-assed on a barrel cactus (not that I’ve ever done that intentionally).

I made a pretty hefty intellectual investment, and that’s part of the reason my first try involved six precious years. Like a lot of writers with good intentions, I took myself way, way too seriously. I mean my first novel - an ‘edgy’ sort of Ellis-y wannabe - isn’t bad (yikes, I get uncomfortably prickly just writing “an ‘edgy’ sort of Ellis-y wannabe"). But a novel of epic proportions? Not really.

I’ve just now started to query agents and I’ve had some very positive feedback from rather good/well known agencies; queries that lead to requests for the full manuscript. And though ultimately, none of them decided to take my book on, those agents did send along some very helpful feedback, and any positive, much less personal commentary, is good news.

(Sidebar: The whole finding an agent process is simultaneously exciting, nerve-racking and depressing. And a person definitely need thick skin. But unless you’re connected, or lucky enough to know someone, it’s the only way I know to respectably publish my work.)

In the meantime, while I look for an agent, I’m trying to finish up editing my second book. The one that took me eight months to finish. Eight months vs. six years.

There’s a mountain of difference between the two. At least, the second was easier to write once I faced my 'issues.'

First, after finishing the first book and hating even the thought of it, I finally dealt with the fact that while I’m a decent writer by anyone’s standards, I’m no Phillip Roth or Albert Camus. I’m probably never going to write anything Pulitzer worthy and I had to accept the idea on my own terms.

Hard as it was at first, I finally, sort of, owned up to my insecurities, as well as to the fact that I am my own worst enemy. And also kind of a closet elitist. An insecure elitist - a writer’s MO don't you think (well at least I’m in good company)?

I like being good at everything I do, and not being the best is definitely discouraging. But I have now embraced the idea that ‘best’ is also sort of a subjective word. Great writers run the gambit of genre and style, and it’s really the reader who ultimately determines it all anyway, no matter what the New York Times prints. Plus, insecure people rarely assign any realistic worth to anything. In other words, I’m not a good judge when it comes to my own work.

But I did finally realize I CAN write less philosophical, less meaningful stories that thrill and delight, and still be good. That my ego isn’t my master. In fact, that was it for me – I had to remove my ego from the picture completely.

Then, and this runs alongside my other epiphany, I made myself believe that it’s stupid to measure my worth as a writer against authors like Proust (Okay, I’ve never read Proust . . . but still). There are reasons people like Kafka and Salinger live in infamy – and those kinds of writers are far and few between. Nice as it’d be to be one, not being one doesn’t reduce my writing.

I allowed myself to give into the idea that I not only love to write, but that I’m addicted. Which means I really have no choice in the matter. Writing is a lovely addiction; not one thing compares, and believe me, I’ve done a hell of a lot of stupid to exciting things. In fact writing satisfies sort of the same way great sex and decadent food makes a person feel blissfully clever and lazy. I’m lost to the act of writing completely.

And after a little soul searching (err, a lot), I convinced myself it was A) okay write something more ‘mainstream,’ B) okay to sit down and write from page A to B without backtracking and editing, C) okay to write poorly then clean it up later after I finished writing a frame of a story, and D) I accepted the fact that my first draft doesn’t have to be instantly illuminating. All things that held me back with first novel. And once I convinced myself that my first draft didn’t have to be ‘IT,’ things sort of snowballed. I ended writing a fun, even compelling story. And I did it quickly.

I may never write the existential, life-changing, earth-shattering work I secretly long to, but as long as I keep at it, I get closer to that truth. And in the meantime, I can’t say I failed for lack of trying.

Tomorrow Comes Too Slowly

noreply@blogger.com (L. Scarlet) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 00:17:00 +0000

It totally figures. I put this site up and suddenly come down with a massive bout of writer’s block. I’m a dried up prune, or, err, raisin maybe. Try as I might I really can’t think of much to say (which in itself is a feat).

Normally, despite my lack of free time, I manage a good few hours of writing (if not solid days) weekly. But for a number of reasons, I haven’t written all week. Whenever I sit down to clean up my manuscript, I get all negative about everything from where I put a comma, to the writing style. It’s pointless to even try - all I do is hack my work to pieces. And I really, really hate that feeling. Like walking backwards down a steep incline.

I took the plunge and enlisted an editor to help me clean up my novel. I think maybe I’ll wait until I get a little feedback from him. In the meantime, I guess I’ll try poetry or humor or something. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.

For The Love Of Writing

noreply@blogger.com (L. Scarlet) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 22:18:00 +0000

‘The Bitter Quill’ was a sometime irreverent, often stupid in a good sort of way monthly column about newish writers and their struggles, in the currently on hiatus ‘Inkwell Newswatch’ e-zine on-line. I loved writing ‘The Bitter Quill’ but hated feeling like I had to write ‘how to’ articles all the time (I didn’t always, regardless).

This blog aspires to pick up where I left off, but with less-to-none ‘how to’ crap, and lot more ‘this is the reality us not so established writers live in.’ Nothing fancy, and nothing that makes anyone feel like writers are snobs, or that the writing business is out of reach. Because elitists make every writer feel lonely, and though lonely can jump-start a bout of good writing, it still feels shitty.

When you love writing so much it’s all you ever want to do, doing it successfully without sinking into a pit of despair isn’t always easy. And the writing world itself isn’t always pretty. Especially if you’re not very traditional (whatever that means). Though the BQ is more or less a journey/journal, it is for every writer. From one struggling writer to another, you can find the truth here.

So who gets to call him or herself a writer? Really, I’m not sure. I’ve written about it before, concluding if you write you are a writer, with a lot more confidence than I actually feel.

Not so long ago, a friend suggested that there’s a difference between being a writer and an author, but conceded that writer means different things to different people. At the time it sounded semantic, but I think he was trying to say that the difference between a ‘writer’ and ‘author’ is that authors are published. To that I say, whatever. If publishing is the litmus, then do published writers have to take home a paycheck to jump the pond? And where does the piece have to make its appearance?

I haven’t figured it out and it’s just one of many topics to blog about in the future. But if you think you’re a writer, then run with it. Cogito, ergo sum. So I must be.