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.

Inspirational Cannibalism

Last night I wrote 903 words. Wahoo! I was inspired by memories of a little white dog named McKenzie. He was a part of our lives for sixteen years, and although he's been gone now for almost six, he remains strong and healthy in the part of my heart he holds. (This is one of the last pictures taken of McKenzie.)

The things in my life that strike a chord, evoke strong emotion, link me to other people, places and situations, make up the well that as I writer, I draw from. Using pieces of my experience, and utilizing craft, are what helps me paint stronger word pictures.

McKenzie is McKenzie in the story I'm writing. Well, mostly. In real life, he was my dog and did not have another family. But my characters are composites and situations are based on "what if." I try to work with one foot firmly planted in reality, and the other one, "foot-loose and fancy-free."

In the scene I wrote last night, McKenzie is cruelly hurt as a warning. My fingers flew over the keyboard, because the bucket I'd pulled up from my well was overflowing. To be honest, there's a possibility a lot of this will be cut when I start doing a bit of editing. As riveting as it was for me to write, if it doesn't add to the story, it'll get the boot.

I heard Dean Koontz say this the other day (okay, not in person . . . in a video he'd made for Barnes & Noble): "Everything you learn about or know about in your life, you cannibalize."

Cannibalize is such a Koontz word, isn't it?

I have a tee-shirt that says, "Careful, or you'll end up in my novel." I think it's funny. Apparently the humor doesn't extend to other people, because when I wear it, no one laughs. And I get pretty much avoided. What's that about?

So, my advice is to keep a notepad handy, but out of sight. If you need to jot down an overheard phrase that tickles your fancy, slip away for a moment. Taking notes is not a good thing in settings where the chairs aren't lined up.




Still reading: Field of Blood.

It's all better with friends.

Nano No-No

I have to say I don't know what I'll get accomplished today. November is a nutty month in my family. Aside from Thanksgiving, this month holds my sister's birthday (the 25th) my brother-in-law's birthday (the 28th) and my husband's birthday (today, the 19th). To increase the excitement (?), it's my husband's 70th birthday. Not only is it no small potatoes, but it doesn't even seem real. And you just know, there are some special things planned that won't be mentioned here in case he pops in to see what I've been up to. Sheeshkabobalino.

Yesterday was also only quasi-good. We live in Colorado. Normally this time of year, we are looking at high temperatures in the 50's. Yesterday? 80's. I didn't get crazy and spend hours outside, but I did take advantage and read on our deck for a while. I would've been a fool not to.

Dang . . . and here's another time waster. Some of you know I'm a major dog-lover, and this is a live web-cam of some Shiba-Inu puppies that are to die for. I'd never heard of the breed until my cousin sent me this link. A neighbor tells me they're incredibly smart.

But I digress.

I'd set my minimum acceptable word creation at 500. Guess what I did yesterday? 503. Hint, hint. After these next few days (giving myself a break here), I'm going to have to bump it to at least 700.

Anyone for a Nano in March?




Still reading Field of Blood. If you go back a couple of posts (and the comments), you will see that the author, Eric Wilson, actually knows I'm reading his book. Gotta give the guy credit for staying on top of things, that's all I can say.

It's all better with friends.

Word Wealth

This struck me yesterday while I sat and bichoked my way to 718 words. (I need thousands, but 718 is what I got.)

Writers mine words like those words were gold. Sometimes I hit a rich vein, sometimes it's hardscrabble, and sometimes it's fool's gold. But every day, I don my helmet and tie on a toolbelt. Some days, at the end, I look like I've moved mountains—with a smudged face and wild hair—and maybe only have 200 new words in my backpack to show for my work. Other days, I walk out of my writing space and look like I haven't broken a sweat, and that day I may have mined 718 words or 1,718 words, or more. Like buttah.

My talent for this business lies in my ability to mine everyday. To up my required load. Or is that lode?

Nanowrimo has at least gotten me to the point where I'm less than satisfied with anything under 500. That doesn't mean I don't have 200 word days, I do. I'm just not satisfied.

In On Writing, Stephen King tells us that he doesn't stop until he hits 2000 words. What he doesn't exactly spell out, but what I think is probably the case, he has plenty of days when his word count is double or triple or even quadruple his target. 2000 becomes a benchmark. A flag gets raised and a silent hallelujah is sung.

The coolest thing? Just because King and Koontz and Connelly are mining a gazillion words every day, we're in no danger of running out. (Oh shoot . . . there's that fear thing again.)

Well, I'm off to the mines.




Still reading: Field of Blood (which is a paranormal thriller and pretty darned interesting.)

It's all better with friends.

Weirdness Loves Company

On one hand, I'm a dismal failure at Nanowrimo. I try and console myself with the fact that it's my first time making this effort, and I broke one of the rules from the very beginning. . . . I didn't start from scratch, but rather from a piece of writing that already meant something to me. I was invested. My fantasy of freewheeling wordplay was riddled with fallacy.

On the other hand, I am putting more words down on a daily basis than I have for a long time, and that feels good. This is the hand I try to keep in front of me when I'm frustrated . . . by me.

Writing is a solitary thing—something I both seek out and rebel against.

That's kind of weird, but it's not The Weird Thing. Ready?

I imagine that as I sit here stringing words together in an effort to decorate the pages with the pictures in my head, I'm clacking away at my keyboard at the same time as Stephen King and Dean Koontz and Michael Connelly and Elizabeth George are clacking away at theirs. What amazing company I'm part of!



CR: Field of Blood by Eric Wilson. I just started this book, but look for the review here when I'm finished.

It's all better with friends.

My Nano Puddle

At this point, I have four buddies writing their hearts out to get to 50,000 words for the month of November. (If you're involved, I'm listed under Peg Brantley . . . I know that's not very innovative. I'm saving innovative for when I really need it.)

For those on-track, the total word count for the month should be about 20,000. I am shooting for the moon with 6,813. I have one buddy really close at 18,456, and I couldn't be more proud. My other two are both in the 12,000 range and I think they are rockin'.

One of my buddies, a pubbed author, is sitting at 1,777. Have you heard of a sandbagger? This person is gonna come out at the eleventh hour with a full 100,000 word novel. I just know it.




Still reading Orbit.

Not very happy with my word count, but hey . . . maybe they're all keepers. Yeah, right.

It's all better with friends.

Snap! Crackle! Pop! Poof!

Friday's post has an interesting element about the fear of going like gangbusters as a writer, and then emptying the pot. Okay, that sounds like a mixed metaphor, but you get my drift.

There's nothing left. What had been simmering and boiling away (smelling divine, by the way), is gone and all that's left is gunk burned on the bottom of the pan.

It stinks and it's stuck.

There's an old saying that goes, "Fear is False Evidence Appearing Real." Sounds good, right? But novelists work very hard at making false things real. It's hard to get my mind around this one.

So, let's see . . . we have:

1. Fear of failure.

2. Fear of success.

3. Fear of not living up to our expectations.

4. Fear of being exposed as a fraud.

5. Fear the words will stop.

6. Fear of [fill in the blank].

There are, of course, an unlimited amount of sub-fears that fall under each of the primary fears.

Depressed?

Don't be. I think I know the cure.

Ready? . . .




Write. Then write some more. Write your head off.

I'm counting on this as the solution.


"First you're an unknown, then you write one book and move up to obscurity." -Martin Myers


CR: Orbit by John Nance

Getting ready to open up my work and exercise the cure.


It's all better with friends.