NaNo commenced last Sunday and by Tuesday I was ahead on word count. That lasted all the way to Wednesday!  Since then I’ve been getting steadily further behind. But this is year three of NaNo for me and I’ve learned a couple of things since my first try:

1. Don’t panic about being behind on word count. That’s what Thanksgiving vacation is for. Your employer thinks you are doing your duty at the family hearth when in fact you are holing up in your writing nest, ignoring them all.
2. Everyone writes shitty first drafts. Get over it.
3. Do not go to the NaNo site forum for encouragement/comiseration. That place is a world-class time suck. Hey, what did I just say? Nice. You can kiss three hours and 1,000 words goodbye.

Pearls of wisdom, yes?

And while I’m here, since who knows when I will return, I’d like to point out that once again, Seattle is kicking global NaNoWriMo ass:

By the way, dunno what broke the images on the last few posts. I fixed them but no promises, since I’m running an old version of Wordpress and haven’t gotten around to upgrading.

Witch takes a bath, uploaded by Uppity

death by Chickens

If it’s competitive, IT’S NOT YOGA.

Look it up.

But since my writing renaissance two years ago, I’ve been reading more widely.  “Write the book you’d want to read” has inspired me to explore more specifically what that is. And besides, I can never have too many reasons to buy more books.

So I’ve been reading with abandon, pretty much any book that’s grabbed me after a two-minute perusal in the bookstore.  A fun premise. Interesting-sounding characters. The occasional irresistible book cover. I haven’t given up mainstream, just branched out as far into the genre forest as I can go. At this point, about the only one not represented on the shelf is hard-boiled mystery because none of them have appealed to me yet (give it time).

And what I’ve learned so far is that - surprise - I don’t care for most genre fiction. In fact, most of the novels I’ve read in the past year have been just fair-to-middlin’, which for some reason has surprised me. Here’s what’s made the shortlist:  The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, Lonely Werewolf Girl by Martin Millar, The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, Neverwhere, by Neil Gaiman, The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters I and II by Gordon Dahlquist, and most recently The Gargoyle, by Andrew Davidson.

All these books kept me up past my bedtime, but identifying the source of their magic has not been so straightforward. They couldn’t be more different in style and structure; about the only thing they have in common is their fantasy element.

After much rendering of garments and gnashing of teeth, I’ve come to the conclusion that what does it for me in a book is not what it’s “about” but how it’s written.

Hopeful Writer says: Duh. But Humble Reader is all: OK fine, but what does that mean exactly? I must analyze this further.

Here is her preliminary report, transcribed from the original neat block script in her trusty moleskin notebook:

1. The Internal Adventure. It’s not that I don’t like action; I do, but I don’t want to follow a cardboard protagonist around while she’s doing it. A lot of books are as short on complex characters as they are long on convoluted plots or intellectually interesting ideas. This is ok once and a while; I’ve read a few hardcore sci-fi and Stephanie Plum books and enjoyed them. But in general I want to live vicariously through a character that changes more than just her underwear in the course of the story. The author has to get me into her heart and mind.
2. Mindful writing. Clichés are the primary ingredient in that famous snake oil, Doctor Author’s Instant Story Flattener, which is apparently irresistible to a lot of writers. If I read one more time about someone’s heart pounding against her ribs like a bird trapped in a cage, or someone laughing mirthlessly, or eyes darkening with rage, I may scream like a banshee.
3. Funny. Now, let me ‘esplain. There’s lots of types of funny - witty, wry, ironic, total goof-ball, etc. For me, the more serious the book’s subject matter, the more I require at least some sort of comic relief. I have a very hard time connecting to totally humorless writing, especially that which takes itself Very Seriously (which is, alas, common in gothic fantasy).  And don’t get me started on the current affliction many authors seem to have of mistaking snark for wit. Ugh.
4. Hopeful endings. Hopeful, not necessarily happy.  I have nothing against either happy or unhappy endings. What I care about is whether the protagonist learned anything. Because to me, learning something new is always hopeful, even if she didn’t get the guy or the Earth blew up or the vampire got away.  Life is too short to waste reading about how rotten things were-are-and-ever-shall-be-the-end.
5. Lurv.  I say it loud, say it proud: I am a romantic. True, I don’t read genre romances, but mainly because I like my lovin’ woven into a broader experience. Love is an essential ingredient for me in my fiction as it is in my life. In other words, for me, a story with no love in it is no story at all.

A brief list but probably not for long; Humble Reader has found she rather enjoys finding things for that attention-hogging Hopeful Writer to do.

1. Which I loved and re-read at least twice. I still have it. It’s falling apart.

Since then, writing fiction has once again become a Have-to, but in an entirely different way: I have to do it in order to retain what little of my sanity hasn’t been eroded away by the all-too-frequent mind-numbingly dull episodes in daily life.

I know this sounds like a really unliterary reason to write, and all the Be Here Now folks are clucking their tongues at my inability to see the beauty and complexity of the Universe in a humble Post-it.

But seriously, what do you think William Faulkner was doing all day whilst licking stamps in that Oxford, Mississippi post office? What’s Stephen King thinking about in that DMV line? Betcha dollars to donuts they were either pondering the plot of their latest creative endeavor, or making mental notes on the people or place around them for use in it.

When they talk about ennui, they’re talking about the suburb of adulthood, where everything from the car to conversation is a politically correct, non-confrontational shade of beige and there are no flamingos on the lawn. Even the things that bring us great joy can take on a patina of predictability.  Most people don’t want to admit we live here but, well, studies show most people think they’re smarter than average, too.

It’s the human condition to become conditioned to things. Like how the first couple bites of chocolate tastes like Manna from Heaven and the rest takes like… chocolate.

My actual job, the stuff I do when they let me work, is good. It’s just a job, but it does not suck. The meetings I have to go to, however - now they suck big, stinky, diseased goats. And my commute, though shorter that it once was, can still put me to a catatonic trance (that’s bad). Then there’s any car trip longer than an hour, endless lines at the store and post office, and the occasional obligatory spousal event I must attend.¹

And thus I began my 38th year considering embarking on a second career in crime, taking up extreme tourism, or getting a full-body tattoo.

But lo! Who is that cresting yonder hill, sitting tall upon the back of a mighty steed and brandishing aloft a shining pen? Tis the muse come to rescue me from the brink of disaster!

Which is to say she threatened me with a certain painful and bloody death if I were to sully her sleek, alabaster hotness with that tattoo. In return for my restraint, she gives me an everlasting and ever-varying assortment of fluorescent plastic ornaments to scatter freely about the grassy plains of my mind.

1. No, not that kind of spousal event. Get your mind out of the gutter!

Photo by Julia Margaret Cameron

This post was inspired by Maureen’s at IslandRoar.

• Post Title of the Week: Schrödinger’s Rapist: or a guy’s guide to approaching strange women without being maced. And the post itself is good, too.
• BTW: Barbie is now too fat. Come on, you knew it was only a matter of time!
• Balloon baloney: I was as spellbound as anyone by the balloon boy story until the article I was reading mentioned that his father just happens to be an alum of the Wife Swap reality show. Is anyone seriously surprised this might have been a hoax? What, a confirmed attention whore pining for his long-gone 15 minutes of fame creates a fake news story? Never!
• The Male Gaze strikes again:  Poor men. Some of them just cannot cope rationally with the women’s romance genre. Which is to say they have a problem accepting women’s desire when it does not conform to what they want women to desire. To wit, the latest from Esquire: Edward Is Twilight in his loafers, and that’s why adolescent girls want to have sex with him. Ladies, the take-away: men who profess their undying love for you, desire you so much they can barely restrain themselves (but they do), and spend more time with you/thinking about you than they do scratching their balls in front of the tube = GAY! Mystery solved.
• Men We Love: The National Organization for Men Against Sexism is having their 34th annual conference in Portland this month; their theme is Men, Sex and Justice.
• Men We Hope Burn in Hell:  And speaking of sex and justice, Polanski should get in prison exactly what he gave to that 13 year old girl. Because after all, the “so-called crime” of unconsentual sodomy isn’t “rape-rape.”
• So Hillary Clinton works more than she poses for the camera. Apparently, this is bad. Only Hillary could get criticized for doing her job too much. Oy.
• Now you can get custom-made leather fetish wear for your toddlers. Shut up, haters - we’re totally not sexualizing our kids! It’s just good clean fun, like those stripper pole toys!
• It’s National Racist-But-Not-Racist Month! First the old man and his “nigger rig it” sign, then the justice of the peace who won’t marry interracial couples. They aren’t racist, they just stand up for what they believe (In between lynchings.)

Ladies, strapping yours across your chest, not your shoulder, can help deter these thieves!

This year a record five women were honored by the Nobel committees. In total, only 40 women have won the prestigious prizes, including Marie Curie who took the 1903 physics prize and the 1911 chemistry prize.

The Nobel Prizes have always seemed to me to be one of those self-defining, self-sustaining units, like the entertainment, fine art, and fashion worlds. The central figures  create their own definitions of what is exceptional and/or “groundbreaking” work, and then hand out “prestigious” awards for it.  The implication to the world is that these people’s achievements, in these specific subjects, are the most note-worthy — when in fact their selection is subject to the same biases of any highly insulated, elitist group.

Since they started awarding, 40 have gone to women, 765 to men. I’m sensing a pattern here.

But even the obvious (but not surprising) sexist bias of the League takes a back seat to their shameless politicking:  Obama takes home the Peace Prize “for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.”

Subtle!

Obama’s done fine so far. Maybe a hiccup here and there but at least he hasn’t started any illegal wars. But come on now. How extraordinary can his efforts have been this early in the game?

There were more than 200 other nominees for the Peace prize. It’s a good bet that at least one of those peacenik’s efforts have been extraordinary for longer and at much greater risk and sacrifice. They just had the bad luck to get nominated so soon after the Evil One was kicked out of office and the League of Extraordinary Gentleman has to let the world know they approve.

Now they’re going to go get shitfaced and teach him the secret handshake.