"You fail only if you stop writing."
 
                      ----Ray Bradbury

Wear Them Big Girl Britches Bitches: Taking Harsh Criticism As a Writer

First off, I gotta get hip with this whole linking thing. I am just so sure that one of these days someone somewhere is going to go all ballistic on me for improperly linking to something of theirs. It's going to happen. 

Now, as I have decided to momentarily crawl out of my navel grazing yurt of pity and angst-dome, I came across this interesting little piece at Cuddlebuggery which is a YA book blog I frequent from time to time (not as much now though). 

Anyways, this blogger at Book Hollow ran into some issues when they reviewed a self published book of some author "no-one-really-knows about". The author pretty much threw a hissy fit because she felt the reviewer was being "mean spirited" and having a "bad day" when she reviewed her book. Never mind that the reviewer actually wrote a very honest and tactful review, with the only vitriol coming in the form of sarcasm, the author felt that she was a "victim" of bullying and has since flooded Goodreads with her many blog posts detailing her treatment. 

Righty-o. So in my time of writing this I decided to do a little digging into this bullying of authors self published (or otherwise) thing. So, I discovered that the site stopthegrbullies.com is devoted to providing support to these ailing darlings of apparent abuse from reviewers and all around trolling assholes. 

Now let me first address the whole hissy-fit author issue first: Based on the review from Book Hollow and the author's subsequent response, I'd have to say that this woman has a major case of NTGAPS-- Needs To Grow A Pair Syndrome. Seriously. 

You criticize the reviewer of having a bad day and being hurtful toward your book when they were just being honest about what their reading experience was? Plus, given the actual review, there wasn't anything there in the least bit entailing that the reviewer was trying to put her down. She didn't attack her personal integrity, told her to never write another book again, or called her a stupid poo poo-poo-face. Sarcastic or not, she addressed her issue with the novel in as straight forward a way as possible. 

Did I mention the reviewer WAS honest? 

So the author's response is to be super offended and then talk in her blog post of being an utter victim and whatnot. Again, I say to her, please grow up a little. A LOT. Please. People are going to be assholes when they review your book. Sometimes they're going to be honest (which is what you got from Book Hollow) and sometimes they are just going to respond with a flat "didn't like it" and you'll never get much more out of them. Heck, sometimes you'll even get an "I liked it!" in more or less a short, blithe way and, let me tell you, that's not always good either (though this chick seems like she needs the validation). So people suck. Reviewers can suck. Getting a negative review can suck but that is the way of the writing world. You enter this realm (or at least you should) with the expectancy of someone not quite liking the novel you've sweated, cried, and bled over. Again, it sucks. Of course I want someone to like my stories as much as I do, but you gotta realize that that is an unrealistic expectation, and whining over someone merely giving their opinion has to be the most unproductive, immature thing to taint your writing career with. 

On to stopthebullies. So the site is made for support and details posts which point out instances of abuse from reviewers, yadda, yadda. While some of the issues I came across could very possibly (and I say that with extremely flat empathy toward the whole thing) contain legitimate issues of bullying and harmful cyberstalking for the sake of being a bastard, there's one post that really raised my skepticism level up to a hundred and ninety. Basically, the "bully review" is considered such because the user accidentally gave a one star review on the author's page just for the sake of asking a question about the book. While she was quickly corrected by other users, since her one star review didn't demonstrate an actual grievance with the book, STGRB pretty much used her as an example of what it means to leave a "bully review" despite the fact that what she did was obviously a mistake and in no way meant to offend anyone. 

So this really irked me. You're using someone as an example (not a very good one at that) in order to show what you consider to be bullying. I just don't see how this articulately conveys what STGRB is trying to do. It was a mistake, an accident, and while they point out they aren't calling the user a "bully" her one star debacle somehow qualifies as "bully reviewing". Last I checked bullying was the act of someone purposely targeting an individual, group, what have you, with the intents of inflicting ridicule, harm, and any other form of assault. So for this site constantly whining about how so many of the members are victims to in turn use someone as a example to fuel their agenda--not cool, dudes. NOT cool. 

As I said, there could very well be real cases of bullying that finds its way into some of their posts. A lot of accusation of taking comments out of context spew from both sides and it would take some real tenacity to follow each and every case to make a definite stance on who's actually to blame. I'm skeptical of STGRB as a whole, but I'm not saying no one on there isn't being bullied. It happens, and as whiny and nutless as I find some of the entries (for instance there's a whole username list of "toxic" offenders which comes off kind of--childish---to me; kind of like a kid in elementary school writing out a crayon scribbled list of classmates they consider dum dum heads) and the general tone of the whole site, I still can't wholly say someone isn't being abused. IT HAPPENS. 

But that's just it, right? It happens. As a writer especially, it's going to happen a lot. You're going to feel bruised and battered and just outright pissed on by the world at large because someone didn't react positively to your work. Sometimes people are going to criticize you for whatever reason. J. K. Rowling (who I kind of personally admire) has got the shit end of people's asses for years since HP's arrival. Many are famously known for not even reading her books and calling her out as the harbinger of Satan and all that is unholy and not good. People believed she was on a personal mission to turn children into demons and coerce them into drinking blood with her and summoning the dead. Did it hold water? Uh, hell no, but there you go. Any rationally minded person can see that this it was just idiotic assholery on the bestower's part, but it happened. And she dealt with it. Many greats before her have dealt with it. 

So you deal with it. People shit on you and you try to be objective about it and you deal with it and keep writing. Yeah, sometimes you'll be hit a little too personally, and in some instances maybe you have to defend yourself, but it's just plain dumb to assume that you're immune to it. 

Personally, has it happened to me yet? No. But it will. I even kind of want it to. 

Am I glutton for cruelty? No, but many times back in college I felt that no one had really given my work the hard edged eye that it desperately needs. Not that I want someone telling me that because my works sucks than that must mean I am a considerably sucky waste of human existence as well, but I know it's out there and there's a reckless (but realistic) part of me that wants to face it, to get some mud thrown in my face. I want someone to shred my work to pieces so I can (once I stop crying and nursing my wounds with chocolate) sit down and figure out how to put it together again. Constructive criticism is always great, and generally preferred, but I've got to get hit with a few flame bullets before I can learn how to properly dodge them the next time. 

I want that experience any day versus walking around in some narmy, overly sensitive head cloud that tells me I'm a good writer and I deserve only praise when the one thing that may save me is to have that cloud waved away and reality give me a little lesson in what it really means to be an artist. 

It starts with learning how to wear them big girl britches. 

 
 




 

"I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done."

                               

                                              ----Steven Wright 

Halleloo.

Wake Up, Bitch!

Dear Our Creator-- the Writer Person Who Refuses to Acknowledge Us Anymore,

Hey. 

Heeyyyy. 

How ya doin'? 

Good? 

You okay? 

What? 

You are? 

Really?

REALLY?

Hmmmmmmm. 

Nope. 

Nope, we don't think so. Not buying it.

In fact, we think you're lying. 

In fact, we think you're a lying bastard and consider this letter to you our reasoning of why. 

What? Who are we? 

Well, we are your novels. Your works in progress. Your scenes that have too long been kept in stasis. 

Your protagonists stuck in their rooms staring balefully at their ceilings and wondering about our next move. 

Your plot that is all exposition and no climax. 

Your hanging resolution to that world shattering conflict the whole story is built upon. 

Your first chapter that is only three words without even a frickin' period at the end. 

We are those things. 

Ah, ah. Wait. Don't bail on us just yet. Don't scoff with a bitchy roll of your eyes and stalk off to watch some TV show you've seen over a dozen times. 

Please just listen, writer-person. Please just hear what we have to say. We swear we'll make it quick. 

First: what's been up with you lately, huh? One minute you're all into us--you're pacing the floor in excitement because you've just had an epiphany about why the damn villain is a sociopathic maniac--then you've suddenly killed them off and then we have no villain. 

Or---you're working on us---like really working on us, like getting up at six in the morning and sitting for four hours with sleep encrusted eyes while you type up a chapter---working on us and then all of a sudden there's nothing. You won't get out of bed, you won't shower, you won't even give us a glance as we sit there shivering on your desktop next to that obnoxious McAfee pop up thing and that downloaded episode of King of the Hill. One minute you're here and then the next you're gone and we're all sitting around looking at each other, silently mouthing, what happened? 

You have to understand-- we're not really angry at this point, but we are kind of sad. Things were going so well. 

Okay, so maybe we are a little pissed. Just a little. Okay. A LOT, but it's with good reason. You've hurt us, you know? You're hurting us. We love you and all we want is for you to see us through to completion. 

We're so distorted right now, so disfigured and blotty. A few characters here, some misguided motivations there, a rickety conflict over there, and half a setting to make camp on. We mean, what. The. Hell? 

We just want to be whole. We just want to be cared for and loved and you're the only person to do it. 

That is, of course, unless you suffer the most crippling misfortune of somebody ELSE suddenly having the same ideas as you and then that person writes us down, and gets us published, and they make a bazillion dollars and three movies, and we become totally there's even though we really wouldn't want to. 

That could happen, you know. It scares us and we don't like thinking about it. 

Or you could...well die, but we REALLY don't like thinking about that. 

Look, our point is that we need you back. We're so lost without you. You're our everything and we swear that if you give us some more chances we can be something meaningful for you. We swear it. 

We'll be so good. We'll follow along with your decisions, walk into scary houses even if we know there's a crazed axe murderer waiting to chop us into pieces; we'll become powerful goddesses with mechanized body parts and even kiss a dead person if you'll just come back to us. We can be so amazing to you, just like you're already amazing to us. 

Look--with this letter we are only trying to reach out to you. Consider it a written intervention. We don't mean to come off as harsh or furious or even disappointed. 

We just miss you, okay? Soooo much. 

So, look, despite all that stuff from before--forget about it. Really. Water under the bridge. Nobody likes to be kicked when they're down. You come back to us when you're ready. 

Seriously, no pressure, really. We are so not being sarcastic. Keep taking some time. Relax a little, play some video games, take a nap, go for a walk, eat something sugary. Think. Reflect. Meditate. Do a little yoga. Become one with yourself. 

And then consider coming back to us. We love you. We need you. 

Most importantly, we believe in you. 

So go get 'em.

 


 

Raise Them Stakes

So I said I wasn't going to do this. 

I was going to TRY and make this blog feature more things of note---links to interesting articles, my thoughts on said articles, my opinion of various conflicts in the world news, perhaps a witty anecdote or two about my day to day dealings--that kind of stuff. Stuff that is pertinent, interesting. Stuff that paints me as this person who at least has something relevant and thoughtful to talk about. 

I'm...not that person. 

I would be at least a little optimistic and say yet but...I don't know, guys. My life isn't the worst or anything, and really it has less to do with MY life and more to do with my feelings. Me emotionally. Ain't gonna get into detail about the nitty gritty but there's a reason I feel so craptastic these days and well...my writing is suffering majorly cause of it. 

I just don't care anymore, you know? I don't really care about writing. In fact, just got an email back from this place, the literary online journal Juked, that told me they would not be accepting my story submission. I just didn't care---care that it didn't make it, care to keep trying. I. JUST. DON'T. CARE. ANYMORE.

My day to day life is sad: I wake up, turn on the TV, and spend the rest of my waking hours on the computer surfing shit; endless and endless eons of stuff that isn't making me a better writer or a more productive human being. While I'm fully aware of my mental state of dishabille, I just pathetically take it all stride. There's no desire to try and do more, there's no drive to even be the least bit determined. It's just one day to the next, one day to the next...nothing. I'm dimly aware of the stuff that I have to take care of, the goals that I set, but they are hazy things that seem so far away and even not worth fighting for. 

I don't care about my appearance, what goes in my stomach. I hate that I'm trapped in what seems to be a sinking---well, it's not even a sinking ship. It's a shipwrecked vessel that's just floating out in the middle of a vast ocean. A huge piece of shredded wreckage that's moving along, every once and while bumping up against a mild wave and gaining only a little momentum. It's covered with bird shit and algae and there's me in the middle of it all---to lazy to do anything about it, no longer caring about being rescued. 

Yes, that's VERY melodramatic, but the short end of the stick is that I feel like nothing right now. Not a writer, not a former student, not a daughter, not a girlfriend, not a sister, an aunt, a granddaughter. I feel like a lump of dung crawling with flies and maggots. I just sit there and collect more. 

So I call this post "raise them stakes" because in my tenure in creative writing classes I've been pounded this sentiment relentlessly like Muhammed Ali after a liter of Red Bull---raise the stakes in whatever you're writing, in a scene, a setting and keep the reader interested they tell me. 

I've failed at this. There is no suspense in my writing, no clear conflict. There's no excitement, Michael Bay-esque explosions around every corner with a hot girl sauntering away while giving an eyeful of panty for the audiences---my characters on the page struggle to make up their minds about what to eat for dinner, what route to take to work. Nothing of interest basically. Nothing to keep someone plunking down twenty five bucks to get my latest novel. Maybe it's because I love my characters and I don't want to see them hurt, maybe it's because I need a few learner's courses in "how to write action filled scenes". 

Or maybe it's because my work so closely mirrors my own life. 

Yes, I love the characters I've made up. I have an entire cast of fictional peeps that have a beginning, middle, and end names along with a family tree dating back from their descendants who came to Ellis Island, but I'm no fool either. I know there's no use in having a character sit at a table for twenty pages musing about the state of the world while sipping from a cup of coffee and munching on a donut. I know that's not exciting. 

So that's where my apathy comes in. I don't care about making stuff happen. I don't care about readers, or keeping people interested or making a good book. My characters no longer do stuff because I didn't care when I was in class writing about it and I don't care now. Just like me they stay in their pajamas all day and look at the same Wikipedia article ten times because they can't figure out why their drive suddenly went over a cliff. 

I feel powerless when it comes to making stuff happen in my fictional world when I can't even make stuff happen in my own world. Writing is no longer an escape from me, it's a neglected pet that I'm watching die as a I starve it, vaguely interested to see how long it will take it for it to die. 

So, in short, that's why I haven't been able to post anything for the past couple of days and many, many days before that. 

I'm going somewhere---good or bad---but I don't care when or how I get there right now. It all means nothing.  

Finally...The Narcissistic Journalist

Came across this article on Toasted Cheese, a pretty awesome online literary journal, and it's had my head a' spinnin since I read it. It's not groundbreaking or anything, but it mainly seems to be addressing this sort of "me-me-me" trend that many writers and journalist are latching on to, mostly in the form of personal first person stories, memoirs, etc. and while I have a slight about the way the whole issue is presented (in my humble opinion the author might benefit from drawing a more definitive line between memoir/essay writing vs. journalism because it sort of comes off as if he's criticizing the practice of including a kind of...narcissism ...in the reporting that journalist are doing nowadays, whereas the writing an essayist/memoir writer is a little different--and really they benefit more from being a bit navel grazey if that's the medium they are writing in) I think I get the underlying gripe. 

If he were to make the distinction a little more clear, I think he may be trying to say that many journalist latch onto this self focused type of writing that isn't really representative of what it is a journalist is meant to do. People as a whole love first person accounts of whatever, be it the time you survived almost being castrated in a freak bear attack or broke up with your high school sweetheart. It allows that feeling of almost being there, of listening to the average person recounting something either mundane or otherwise and walking away with that feeling of having a peek into someone's personal life. Being almost a "voyeur" as the article puts it. And since it's always more interesting to look at the crap of another person's life, burgeoning writers flock to this practice in the hope to make their stab in the market. 

So I got that much from the article and for the most part I'd have to agree. Anyone who thinks they could sustain a whole writing career on mere twists and turns of their own accord alone might be in for a doozy of a ride. As Nolan put it, "There is nothing more painful to watch than a writer desperately grasping at ever less-important aspects of their own lives in order to make word counts, until they must simultaneously eat lunch and be writing about eating that lunch at the same time." Certainly, if you'd built your whole career around people consuming all the tidbits of your ups and downs so that ultimately you've become this character whom people expect to showcase their fuck ups to even be considered relevant...yeah, that's a problem. 

At the same time though, I think Nolan kind of glazes over the fact that even as a journalist whom is reporting "someone else's story" you're still apt to present it subjectively. Unless you're just a journalist who is simply writing the facts as they are and leaving it at that, how could you NOT include some of your own personal viewpoints? "Presenting someone else's story" means that you have to in a sense be a storyteller and tell the world about something you've learned, but obviously--even if it isn't your own personal story--you may tell it rather differently simply from the fact that you're the one writing it. If that person had the chance to tell their narrative, isn't it possible they'd say something else completely? If anything that happens all the time--a journalist may report the events of a separate experience in a way that would either be celebrated for being closely accurate, or otherwise doing just what Nolan accuses--being narcissistic. 

Again, I get that he's touching more on the fact that it's become easier and trendier to grab a reader's attention by presenting your own life story with lines like, as Susan Shapiro wrote, "In December my husband stopped screwing me" 'cause, yeah, who wouldn't want to read that story? But there are better, more interesting stories out there and the mass market is more willing to ignore those in favor of some woman's failing marriage--I get that. I'm no journalist by any means, but from what little I managed to learn about the craft you're still a storyteller but in a different way than, say, J.K. Rowling is. You can still be narcissistic without writing about yourself, because I think a little subjectivity makes its way into your writing simply because of the fact that YOU'RE A WRITER. 

Anyway, when I scrolled down to the read the comments of this article one mentioned blogs falling apart if you become too personal about writing. 

O.O

Oops. 

I guess that's what I've been trying to get at with this post---am I too personal, too gripey about my writing? 

Yeah, I suppose on many levels I definitely am. On one hand, I kinda hate that. While I'm trying to use this blog as a place to sort out my feelings about so many things--my writing included--I constantly, as you know, worry if I come off as too me-me-me about everything. I want to definitely achieve a level of narrative consistency, but my saving grace (and ultimate excuse) is that I kind of have to tread the waters and drown a couple of times before I can swim freely (BAD ANALOGY I KNOW). 

Should I be more focused, more objective in what I'm presenting? Telling my stories, whatever they are, and keeping the personal narrative to a minimal nil? I'm certainly running into the problem of finding little to talk about at times, doing the whole blow by blow thing. After all, as I said earlier, you sort of want to simultaneously roll your eyes and punch someone in the face if they're continually reporting their daily toast intake and what they wore to work on what day. Do I want to be known for my plucky opinions on the episode of Breaking Bad I watched, or my own story about a character's descent into antagonism? (WHICH IS WHAT MAKES THAT SHOW SO AWESOME BTW!!!) 

Okay. So I'll end all this by saying that I will definitely consider what I'm posting to the world from now on. After all, there really is more to me than just moan and groaning, ya'll. I promise.

On another winter morning...A prompt

On another winter morning Dad would be here. 

They had come. They came every eighteenth day of every month, every year, and they always wanted the same thing--whatever was in the lacquered black box by the door. 

We didn't know what was in it. We didn't know what he was giving them, but whatever it was it saved us. I know that much. It kept the house warm, food on the table, and the outlaws away from our door. It protected us, kept me and the girls in school. I depended on that box, even though it was as innocuous a thing to me as a piece of antique furniture, something ordinary I passed every time I went out the door. 

Now Dad was gone, missing for days and we had no idea where to find him. Mama wouldn't let us go out looking. She was scared, but she just decided to assume he'd be home soon, but I knew better. If Daddy wasn't back on this eighteenth day, knowing how important it was, then something was wrong.

And so they came. They stood outside our door, silent as shadows. We couldn't open the box because Dad had the key. 

I tried to help. I thrust the box at them after so many moments in hope they would just take it and leave. They let it drop at their feet and wordlessly shook their heads at my admission. There was only one way they would go and that was if it was opened and they got what they wanted. 

Dad was gone. The box would not be open. He had the key. On another winter morning, if it were any other winter morning, Dad would have been here. 

So I realized with a horrifying clarity that those mornings were gone, just like Dad was gone too. 

We were alone and at the mercy of these silent benefactors who stared at us with deadened eyes that grew colder as the minutes ticked by and the box remained closed. 

~~~

WHAT. THE. HELL. 

This...I don't even know what this is. 

Right, so I'm trying hard to keep this space relevant by posting something of the writely type everyday and creative prompts seemed to be the way to go. This one in particular ("On another winter morning...") I got from Patricia Ann McNair's website where she had a whole bunch of prompts from last year posted. So everyday I'm going to try and use either her prompts or any others I find and post them. Whether or not I stay faithful is up for debate but, damn it, I'm going to try.

This sucks I know, but I'm not married to it or anything. I couldn't really figure out where to go with it, but I managed to squeeze out this idea of an absent parent and something ominous happening and-- you get the picture. I may post another later. 

On another note, I've been reading Elfquest and it. is. AMAZING. I already mentioned The Masque of the Red Death which is another take on the short story by Poe, all written by graphic novelist Wendy Pini whom I have come to adore. If you love the story by Poe check out her comic, and if you're into high fantasy featuring elves and gorgeously drawn artwork, please read Elfquest. I was skeptical at first but now I'm a believe-ah. 

So that's it for now. Again, maybe more later.

Random Scary PC Game and Noticing Stuff

Ummm...

Okay so here. Ran across this game last night on lovely Kotaku. Creepy as hell? Uh, yeah, but I kinda like Poe and am totally in love with The Masque of the Red Death after this webcomic which was as darkly decadent and tragic as it's synopsis boasts. Seriously, it's good ya'll. I've been meaning to track down some Elfquest and see if I can't read some---

Annnnd I just found out that they've got the whole series online. Hello new daily distraction! But I'll still try to update as much as possible with, er...random stuff and...

Ugh! That's what's so frustrating about this whole blog thing! I don't really know what I'm doing with it. For now I'm just trying to stay relevant by posting link and little tidbits and blurbs and whatever, but man! I feel so boring. This blog is as boring as my life. Officially. 

Okay. Enough whining. What else? 

Uhhhhh--well, the scholarship hunt is coming along. Sorta. Have run up against a bit of an impasse, but I think I'll get through it. With luck I'll have at least half my bill cut down and then if I find a job I can take care of the rest. 

Welp, that's it for now. 

Oh, and one other thing---watching my niece right now. I am SO not having kids. At least not for, like....EVER. 

>:(

Over and Out

No idea what the title means but---

Spent most of the night and some of the morning in the hospital yesterday and today. Mom was pretty sick...and I officially hate hospital smell. Seriously: anticeptic, bandages, dried blood, rubber gloves, alcohol swabs---hate it. 

On the upside though, I scored an awesome cranberry pecan oatmeal cookie which tasted a lot better than it probably sounds. Otherwise, I did lil else---came home and went to sleep and spent an hour or so hunting down food. That's bout it, ya'll. 

Although, I did manage to write something today so I guess that counts a little as far as being more proactive about my writing. A little. 

We'll see what happens tomorrow. 

First Update of 2013! What?!

I'm actually...posting something? Really? What alternate realm is this that makes such a thing possible? 

I didn't get up to much today--surprise, surprise--but I just felt compelled to do SOMETHING. I am getting increasingly worried that I'm becoming nothing but a lazy slob in my "hiatus" from school so the least I could do amid my passionate job hunt and scholarship searching is type up some crap to this blog and hope someone, somewhere actually gives two shits about the boring, slow-as-molasses life that is mine. 

But it's a new year so new beginnings and whatnot. We'll see what I get up to--or don't get up to as it were.