Sometimes I think I'm nothing but a phony. A fraud. I'm sure everyone can see right through me and immediately know I'm fooling myself thinking I'm a writer. Especially if I'm sitting around with real writers somewhere. They've got It. I'm just a wannabe.
Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland is my current non-fiction read. I liked this:
Fears about artmaking fall into two families: fears about yourself, and fears about your reception by others. In a general way, fears about yourself prevent you from doing your BEST work, while fears about your reception by others prevent you from doing your OWN work.
Under the caption of Pretending is this:
It's easy to imagine that REAL [writers] know what they're doing and that they—unlike you—are entitled to feel good about themselves and their [writing].
These concepts go to the fact that when the Story is in charge, and not Peg, things fly. Characters become individuals, not just people I've created on paper. When my ego steps out of the way, good things happen. Or rather, as a suspense novelist, bad things happen.
Press through self-doubts, ego, and the needs both those imposters create. Press through the fear until the story is all there is and ride the wave.
I'm only a fraud if that's what I believe myself to be. And I'm not.
I'm a writer.
Still reading Fractured. It's well done (Slaughter is a REAL writer), but I must say, I like shorter chapters.
It's all better with friends.
Showing posts with label Art and Fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Art and Fear. Show all posts
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Echoes
It's funny how one element in my life can echo another. I think it's God's way of hitting me over the head with a brick. And let me tell ya, I really try to pay attention, because the bricks only get heavier. He loves me that much. {sigh}
The 2008 NaNoWriMo is over. I failed miserably—depending on how you look at it. I did not come close to 50,000 words. But I learned a few things about me and my writing along the way.
First, I love to just sit down and write free-style. I haven't looked yet, but I bet I have some decent, salvageable stuff. There's a freedom in letting the story rule. Allowing art to flow with its agenda, not mine. Very Steven King-ish.
Second, if I do this again (and I'm seriously considering it because the coaches were so incredible), I know I need to make every attempt to crank out my 50,000 words by November 19th. That's my husband's birthday and the unofficial start to our family holidays and commitments. That means that rather than 1,667 words a day, I'll need to focus on . . . 2,778 a day. It's easy to say this now, but I think I could do that. It would be a huge stretch for me, but hey, it wouldn't be special otherwise.
One of the gurus with Nano wrote about the aftermath. What do we have now? Just a bunch of first draft drivel? Well, yeah. But that drivel could be the start of something great.
Which brings me to the echo.
In Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland, I read a few corresponding ideas today:
Quitting is fundamentally different from STOPPING. The latter happens all the time. Quitting happens once. Quitting means not starting again—and art is all about starting again.
This means that the only way you can fail is if you quit. Whether it's your novel or your sales goals or your marriage. Keep showing up.
Vision is always ahead of execution—and it SHOULD be.
My first draft is not my final draft. My vision of the words and the story will get closer with each rewrite I complete.
Most artists don't daydream about making great art—they daydream about HAVING MADE great art.
Hello. Forget the pain, the beautiful words I had to delete, the days I sat here and knew deep within my soul that I was an imposter. Write? Me?
My daydream is about my fabulous breakout novel that amazes my family and makes my worst critics say, "I always knew she had it in her."
And here, more than any other place came the echoes for Nano:
I've had the wonderful opportunity of wandering through Leo Tolstoy's house in Moscow. I'll save the details for another post, but Tolstoy, before Word, re-wrote War & Peace not once, not twice, but eight times. As it was finally rolling to press he was still frantically revising. Before Word? Before an IBM Selectric even? He didn't quit. He didn't quit. Oy.
Bayles and Orland tells me: The truth is that the piece of art which seems so profoundly right in its finished state may earlier have been only inches or seconds away from total collapse.
So I've come full circle.
I will not quit.
Still reading: Fractured
The 2008 NaNoWriMo is over. I failed miserably—depending on how you look at it. I did not come close to 50,000 words. But I learned a few things about me and my writing along the way.
First, I love to just sit down and write free-style. I haven't looked yet, but I bet I have some decent, salvageable stuff. There's a freedom in letting the story rule. Allowing art to flow with its agenda, not mine. Very Steven King-ish.
Second, if I do this again (and I'm seriously considering it because the coaches were so incredible), I know I need to make every attempt to crank out my 50,000 words by November 19th. That's my husband's birthday and the unofficial start to our family holidays and commitments. That means that rather than 1,667 words a day, I'll need to focus on . . . 2,778 a day. It's easy to say this now, but I think I could do that. It would be a huge stretch for me, but hey, it wouldn't be special otherwise.
One of the gurus with Nano wrote about the aftermath. What do we have now? Just a bunch of first draft drivel? Well, yeah. But that drivel could be the start of something great.
Which brings me to the echo.
In Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland, I read a few corresponding ideas today:
Quitting is fundamentally different from STOPPING. The latter happens all the time. Quitting happens once. Quitting means not starting again—and art is all about starting again.
This means that the only way you can fail is if you quit. Whether it's your novel or your sales goals or your marriage. Keep showing up.
Vision is always ahead of execution—and it SHOULD be.
My first draft is not my final draft. My vision of the words and the story will get closer with each rewrite I complete.
Most artists don't daydream about making great art—they daydream about HAVING MADE great art.
Hello. Forget the pain, the beautiful words I had to delete, the days I sat here and knew deep within my soul that I was an imposter. Write? Me?
My daydream is about my fabulous breakout novel that amazes my family and makes my worst critics say, "I always knew she had it in her."
And here, more than any other place came the echoes for Nano:
I've had the wonderful opportunity of wandering through Leo Tolstoy's house in Moscow. I'll save the details for another post, but Tolstoy, before Word, re-wrote War & Peace not once, not twice, but eight times. As it was finally rolling to press he was still frantically revising. Before Word? Before an IBM Selectric even? He didn't quit. He didn't quit. Oy.
Bayles and Orland tells me: The truth is that the piece of art which seems so profoundly right in its finished state may earlier have been only inches or seconds away from total collapse.
So I've come full circle.
I will not quit.
Still reading: Fractured
Friday, November 28, 2008
Art and Fear
New Make-Me-a-Better-Writer book creates New Thoughts. Part I of this interesting contribution to the Education of Peg, Art and fear, Observations On The Perils (And Rewards) of Artmaking by David Bales and Ted Orland begins with this:
"Writing is easy: all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead." - Gene Fowler
Since this quote is actually on my screensaver, I felt an immediate kinship with the authors.
Most of us, who live in the United States, celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday. And we did this as most of the world tried to stay up to speed on the horror unfolding in India. The outside Real World ran head-on into our safe kitchens and dining rooms and traditions. It ran head-on into our ability to cut off everything around us and write.
Blood poured from more than my forehead. It poured from my heart.
Bales and Orland want me to believe that talent isn't necessarily randomly gifted to those the world labels as "genius"—that if I don't possess the real-deal, I may as well hang it up because fate is against me. Instead, they say: Personally, we'll side with Conrad's view of fatalism: namely, that it is a species of fear—the fear that your fate IS in your own hands, but that your hands are weak.
So, what do we do when the world inflicts itself?
Right or wrong, this past week has been devoted to my family, my life, my imperfect world. It was a time for me to be thankful for the fact that I love a man of honor and integrity, and am loved by him in return. That my quality of life isn't threatened by poor health. That we have made our nest in a little slice of the world where there are no gunmen fighting for a cause I haven't yet heard about to even begin to comprehend.
My hands may have been weak where my writing life is concerned this past week, but they've been strong maintaining the structure that holds me up.
More next week.
Just finished Field of Blood. I'll work on my review tomorrow.
It's all better with friends.
"Writing is easy: all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead." - Gene Fowler
Since this quote is actually on my screensaver, I felt an immediate kinship with the authors.
Most of us, who live in the United States, celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday. And we did this as most of the world tried to stay up to speed on the horror unfolding in India. The outside Real World ran head-on into our safe kitchens and dining rooms and traditions. It ran head-on into our ability to cut off everything around us and write.
Blood poured from more than my forehead. It poured from my heart.
Bales and Orland want me to believe that talent isn't necessarily randomly gifted to those the world labels as "genius"—that if I don't possess the real-deal, I may as well hang it up because fate is against me. Instead, they say: Personally, we'll side with Conrad's view of fatalism: namely, that it is a species of fear—the fear that your fate IS in your own hands, but that your hands are weak.
So, what do we do when the world inflicts itself?
Right or wrong, this past week has been devoted to my family, my life, my imperfect world. It was a time for me to be thankful for the fact that I love a man of honor and integrity, and am loved by him in return. That my quality of life isn't threatened by poor health. That we have made our nest in a little slice of the world where there are no gunmen fighting for a cause I haven't yet heard about to even begin to comprehend.
My hands may have been weak where my writing life is concerned this past week, but they've been strong maintaining the structure that holds me up.
More next week.
Just finished Field of Blood. I'll work on my review tomorrow.
It's all better with friends.
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