I recommend sunglasses and a box of tissues. Perhaps a bottle or two of wine.
Yes, this is my first time doing this. My novel is still not complete, but it's been tucked away for nearly two years; I finally reached the point where I have time to finish, but I needed a recap to figure out where and how I left off.
It's horrible.
Why on earth did I use so much dialogue? I mean, dialogue can be great, but who wants to read a whole spoken book?
Okay, maybe it's not that bad - maybe the whole thing isn't dialogue, but I'll be damned if it's not close. I don't remember doing this. Didn't I used to hate writing dialogue? Why oh why would I have written this way?
I'm only on the fourth chapter and my stomach is already in knots. Editing this garbage is actually going to be the equivalent of rewriting. How do you do it? Has anyone ever looked back on something and said, "Man, this rocks!" Is it common to feel so worthless when reading a first draft, particularly a National Novel Writing Month first draft? I sure could use some words of wisdom. If it were up to me, I'd trash this thing and start over, but the practical side of me says, "Don't you dare." I know I put a lot of hard work into this and I'm not about to walk away, but how do you trudge ahead? Are you ever embarrassed?
Happy writing,
Cherstin
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Saturday, September 28, 2013
About never revealing your plot.
As a three-time NaNoWriMo failure, there are a few words of writing wisdom I cannot impart enough, and I just broke my number one rule this morning, in my office, not 30 minutes ago:
Do not, under any circumstances, ever attempt to lay out and explain your plot. To anyone.
This, ladies and gentlemen, would be me and my husband, the non-reader.
This, ladies and gentlemen, would be the number one reason I have never successfully finished any of the three novels on which I've begun.
I can hear you now as you begin to form your arguments. "But wait a minute," you'll say. "If I don't tell someone what I'm writing, how will I know if it's good? I mean, it's my (husband/wife/child/significant other/parent/teacher/boss). How can I not share my brilliance with him/her/them?"
Listen to me: don't do it.
Here's why.
I'm going to tell you the plot synopsis of a book, and then I'm going to tell you another plot synopsis of the same book.
From StephenKing.com - "The story of misfit high-school girl, Carrie White, who gradually discovers that she has telekinetic powers. Repressed by a domineering, ultra-religious mother and tormented by her peers at school, her efforts to fit in lead to a dramatic confrontation during the senior prom."
I don't know about you, but that doesn't do too much for me. Nowhere in King's review do you garner a sense of the sympathy you're going to end up feeling for Carrie...and you do feel for her, no matter how stone cold of a reader you pretend to be.
Now, here's a second synopsis of Carrie, from a random comment by Kathy on Goodreads: "It's a gruesome and disturbing tale of a young woman with an extraordinary gift who, pushed too far by her religious mother and the relentless mocking of her schoolmates, wreaks a terrible revenge on those who've made her suffer."
That's my kind of review. I see revenge, I see relentless behavior, I see a bold and brave young woman who fights back. Not simply a "misfit" as described in King's review of Carrie.
Same book: I'd read it after the second review, but probably not after the first.
Interesting, right? Imagine, if you will, your sixty-something-year-old mother's review of one of the Star Wars movies as opposed to that of your thirty-something husband. Big difference. Huge.
So if you pitch your writing idea to someone whose tastes are just a hair off from your own, you're going to get that "deer in the headlights" look, and no matter how sure of yourself you are as a writer, I promise you that when you get that look from someone close to you, you're going to get knocked down.
I promise you that.
If that person truly loves you, they'll try to think of comebacks that won't hurt your feelings, like, "That sounds great, babe." Or, "Oh!" But you'll never get the emphatic and honest result you're looking for, because these characters are still yours. The person to whom you're laying out your story hasn't met them yet and has no interest in whether or not they fail or succeed. You are the one who loves them. You are the one laying their story on paper.
This is why hardly anyone has read Forrest Gump in book form, yet everyone knows the movie.
Hold it in. You love your story. You're incredibly excited about it and you just want someone to share in your excitement, and that's great. We get that. I get that. I do. So when someone asks, and they inevitably will, sum up your story in one word. That's all you give them - one word. ("It's about fishing, Ma.") You're the one who is pouring your heart out into the story: tell them they must wait to read it until it's finished. You, too, shouldn't try to sell your reader on a fragmented piece of your story. Writing a blurb cannot be accomplished until you know how the story ends, so finish it.
Finish it.
I can't say it enough. Finish it.
Don't let anyone inadvertently steal the wind from your sails. It may happen, but you can prevent it in this situation.
In his On Writing, Stephen King offers to the reader an excerpt of "1408" as it appeared as a rough draft. If you don't find strength in your own writing after reading that, well, I'm not sure what kind of approval you're looking for. The bottom line is, the draft is going to suck. You yourself while composing said draft are going to suck, and you don't know how much of the story is going to change before you write those final ending words. Hold on to your wind, hold your story close, and finish it.
Cherstin, out.
Do not, under any circumstances, ever attempt to lay out and explain your plot. To anyone.
This, ladies and gentlemen, would be me and my husband, the non-reader.
This, ladies and gentlemen, would be the number one reason I have never successfully finished any of the three novels on which I've begun.
I can hear you now as you begin to form your arguments. "But wait a minute," you'll say. "If I don't tell someone what I'm writing, how will I know if it's good? I mean, it's my (husband/wife/child/significant other/parent/teacher/boss). How can I not share my brilliance with him/her/them?"
Listen to me: don't do it.
Here's why.
I'm going to tell you the plot synopsis of a book, and then I'm going to tell you another plot synopsis of the same book.
From StephenKing.com - "The story of misfit high-school girl, Carrie White, who gradually discovers that she has telekinetic powers. Repressed by a domineering, ultra-religious mother and tormented by her peers at school, her efforts to fit in lead to a dramatic confrontation during the senior prom."
I don't know about you, but that doesn't do too much for me. Nowhere in King's review do you garner a sense of the sympathy you're going to end up feeling for Carrie...and you do feel for her, no matter how stone cold of a reader you pretend to be.
Now, here's a second synopsis of Carrie, from a random comment by Kathy on Goodreads: "It's a gruesome and disturbing tale of a young woman with an extraordinary gift who, pushed too far by her religious mother and the relentless mocking of her schoolmates, wreaks a terrible revenge on those who've made her suffer."
That's my kind of review. I see revenge, I see relentless behavior, I see a bold and brave young woman who fights back. Not simply a "misfit" as described in King's review of Carrie.
Same book: I'd read it after the second review, but probably not after the first.
Interesting, right? Imagine, if you will, your sixty-something-year-old mother's review of one of the Star Wars movies as opposed to that of your thirty-something husband. Big difference. Huge.
So if you pitch your writing idea to someone whose tastes are just a hair off from your own, you're going to get that "deer in the headlights" look, and no matter how sure of yourself you are as a writer, I promise you that when you get that look from someone close to you, you're going to get knocked down.
I promise you that.
If that person truly loves you, they'll try to think of comebacks that won't hurt your feelings, like, "That sounds great, babe." Or, "Oh!" But you'll never get the emphatic and honest result you're looking for, because these characters are still yours. The person to whom you're laying out your story hasn't met them yet and has no interest in whether or not they fail or succeed. You are the one who loves them. You are the one laying their story on paper.
This is why hardly anyone has read Forrest Gump in book form, yet everyone knows the movie.
Hold it in. You love your story. You're incredibly excited about it and you just want someone to share in your excitement, and that's great. We get that. I get that. I do. So when someone asks, and they inevitably will, sum up your story in one word. That's all you give them - one word. ("It's about fishing, Ma.") You're the one who is pouring your heart out into the story: tell them they must wait to read it until it's finished. You, too, shouldn't try to sell your reader on a fragmented piece of your story. Writing a blurb cannot be accomplished until you know how the story ends, so finish it.
Finish it.
I can't say it enough. Finish it.
Don't let anyone inadvertently steal the wind from your sails. It may happen, but you can prevent it in this situation.
In his On Writing, Stephen King offers to the reader an excerpt of "1408" as it appeared as a rough draft. If you don't find strength in your own writing after reading that, well, I'm not sure what kind of approval you're looking for. The bottom line is, the draft is going to suck. You yourself while composing said draft are going to suck, and you don't know how much of the story is going to change before you write those final ending words. Hold on to your wind, hold your story close, and finish it.
Cherstin, out.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Where the rubber meets the road.
We all know what they say about "best-laid plans," and regardless of which translation you prefer, it all boils down to the same in the end.
Needless to say, I did not wake up early and write. Instead, I was treated to a fever and a sore throat and missed today's classes. Eek.
I read an interesting article earlier and it has my wheels turning. It was posted by a fellow Google+ user and it discussed the benefits of the Pomodoro technique. In a nutshell, the technique is designed to increase productivity by resetting the rhythms of the body: productivity is said to increase when the user works (or writes) for a strict 25-minute interval followed by a five-minute break.
Rinse and repeat.
There is a book that goes with it, and probably some other jazz, too, but I don't know if a book is really necessary - unless, perhaps, you happen to be fascinated with science and whatnot. (I'm not even sure if science is included in the book, so don't quote me on that. I just can't figure out what one would need a book for in this instance.)
If you're interested in giving it a try, as I know I am, there is a free Chrome extension called Strict Workflow that can be downloaded and configured for a 25/5 cycle. I downloaded it and I think I'll give it a try in the morning.
Of course, we all know how that goes.
In other news, I successfully removed Google+ comments from my Blogger account today, so those who wish to comment will no longer be dragged through hot coals and forced to set up a Google+ account in order to drop some feedback on my posts. I hope you'll take advantage of all the hard work I put into it, and please give me some feedback and let me know how the comment process works! Hopefully it will be much easier and much more user-friendly. Since I dumped my Facebook account, I have still had high traffic to the blog, but no interaction. It gets sort of lonely over on this side of the interwebs - I know you're there, but I don't know much else.
I also was able to start the merge between my two Google+ accounts, and I'm not even sure when or why the split took place. I thought it odd that my Google+ account didn't look the same when I came back to it a few days ago: I wondered in which bush my old friends were hiding. Today I realized the problem when I came across another Cherstin Holtzman. Of course, Google+ recommended she and I should be friends.
Good on ya, Google+. Thanks for the heads-up.
Her Google+ account was way cooler than mine - and she had all the friends I remembered having! Imagine that. Traitorous slime.
Apparently there is a seven day waiting period for the accounts to merge. (If you need help with this, let me know. I consider myself a Google Transfer Ninja Master after today's exploits.) I'm not sure what's going to happen in seven days when new account and old account collide. A paradigm shift? Black hole? Rip in the fabric of time?
I'll keep you posted.
In the meantime, just keep swimming.
Errr...writing.
(Sorry - Disney's Bolt has given way to Finding Nemo recently. I quote both.)
Cherstin, out.
Needless to say, I did not wake up early and write. Instead, I was treated to a fever and a sore throat and missed today's classes. Eek.
I read an interesting article earlier and it has my wheels turning. It was posted by a fellow Google+ user and it discussed the benefits of the Pomodoro technique. In a nutshell, the technique is designed to increase productivity by resetting the rhythms of the body: productivity is said to increase when the user works (or writes) for a strict 25-minute interval followed by a five-minute break.
Rinse and repeat.
There is a book that goes with it, and probably some other jazz, too, but I don't know if a book is really necessary - unless, perhaps, you happen to be fascinated with science and whatnot. (I'm not even sure if science is included in the book, so don't quote me on that. I just can't figure out what one would need a book for in this instance.)
If you're interested in giving it a try, as I know I am, there is a free Chrome extension called Strict Workflow that can be downloaded and configured for a 25/5 cycle. I downloaded it and I think I'll give it a try in the morning.
Of course, we all know how that goes.
In other news, I successfully removed Google+ comments from my Blogger account today, so those who wish to comment will no longer be dragged through hot coals and forced to set up a Google+ account in order to drop some feedback on my posts. I hope you'll take advantage of all the hard work I put into it, and please give me some feedback and let me know how the comment process works! Hopefully it will be much easier and much more user-friendly. Since I dumped my Facebook account, I have still had high traffic to the blog, but no interaction. It gets sort of lonely over on this side of the interwebs - I know you're there, but I don't know much else.
I also was able to start the merge between my two Google+ accounts, and I'm not even sure when or why the split took place. I thought it odd that my Google+ account didn't look the same when I came back to it a few days ago: I wondered in which bush my old friends were hiding. Today I realized the problem when I came across another Cherstin Holtzman. Of course, Google+ recommended she and I should be friends.
Good on ya, Google+. Thanks for the heads-up.
Her Google+ account was way cooler than mine - and she had all the friends I remembered having! Imagine that. Traitorous slime.
Apparently there is a seven day waiting period for the accounts to merge. (If you need help with this, let me know. I consider myself a Google Transfer Ninja Master after today's exploits.) I'm not sure what's going to happen in seven days when new account and old account collide. A paradigm shift? Black hole? Rip in the fabric of time?
I'll keep you posted.
In the meantime, just keep swimming.
Errr...writing.
(Sorry - Disney's Bolt has given way to Finding Nemo recently. I quote both.)
Cherstin, out.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Writers block, plot holes, and picking up the pieces: Oh, my!
I've been trying to resurrect the ol' blog as of late, but I'm realizing I have turned my tiny slice of the interweb into a one-way street, complete with potholes and road construction. Possibly even flooding.
For the first time in a long while (read: "first time ever"), I'm calling for interaction from the masses. Yes, you there, in your old woolly socks. Yes, you, eating a chocolate bar for breakfast. You are the ones I want to hear from, because you are the ones that are here.
I'm going to start writing in the morning.
At this point, it's just past 10pm and I have no idea what I'm going to write about. I know that somewhere around here, in one of these desk drawers, I have a partially-completed novel in the 33000-word-range. I know that at this point, I'm not sure if the best thing to do is to give it a reread (considering it's been collecting dust for the past year --- okay, maybe two), or just plow ahead with a "best guess" at where I left off.
I know I put it away because I hit a snag, and maybe that's what people mean when they talk about "writers block." If so, writers block is indeed pretty shitty. I felt like I hit a brick wall, surrounded by concertina wire and alligators. Inpenetrable. It was a gaping plot hole. I couldn't figure out how to get from point A to point B, but I realize now that it doesn't matter. The rules and conventions of "our world" don't necessarily have to apply in the land of make-believe. Science fiction writers do it all the time: Just write it and make it believable enough so the validity of the action doesn't come into play. No one turned off Minority Report because there aren't really telepaths that predict crime, right?
Right.
(Wait. Are there?)
Have you ever had to work around a plot hole? Have you ever had an idea for a great beginning and a great ending, but couldn't quite make the pieces fit? If so, what did you do? How did you turn frustration into success? I'd love to hear some examples or ideas.
In the meantime,
Cherstin, out.
For the first time in a long while (read: "first time ever"), I'm calling for interaction from the masses. Yes, you there, in your old woolly socks. Yes, you, eating a chocolate bar for breakfast. You are the ones I want to hear from, because you are the ones that are here.
I'm going to start writing in the morning.
At this point, it's just past 10pm and I have no idea what I'm going to write about. I know that somewhere around here, in one of these desk drawers, I have a partially-completed novel in the 33000-word-range. I know that at this point, I'm not sure if the best thing to do is to give it a reread (considering it's been collecting dust for the past year --- okay, maybe two), or just plow ahead with a "best guess" at where I left off.
I know I put it away because I hit a snag, and maybe that's what people mean when they talk about "writers block." If so, writers block is indeed pretty shitty. I felt like I hit a brick wall, surrounded by concertina wire and alligators. Inpenetrable. It was a gaping plot hole. I couldn't figure out how to get from point A to point B, but I realize now that it doesn't matter. The rules and conventions of "our world" don't necessarily have to apply in the land of make-believe. Science fiction writers do it all the time: Just write it and make it believable enough so the validity of the action doesn't come into play. No one turned off Minority Report because there aren't really telepaths that predict crime, right?
Right.
(Wait. Are there?)
Have you ever had to work around a plot hole? Have you ever had an idea for a great beginning and a great ending, but couldn't quite make the pieces fit? If so, what did you do? How did you turn frustration into success? I'd love to hear some examples or ideas.
In the meantime,
Cherstin, out.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Blowing smoke.
Haven't we been here before, you and I? I was just about to tell you that I'm filling out a scholarship application--the one where I need a nomination, a few letters of recommendation, and a few completed essays where I tell you all about how terrific and deserving I am of the Outstanding Graduate award. Weren't we here at another time, in another place?
Maybe it's just deja vu blatantly lurking around every corner.
I'm not sure, but I hate the idea of talking about my "greatest accomplishment," or my advice to new students to help them be successful. I feel like I'm selling a used car. I'm not sure if that analogy makes me the salesperson or the car, but neither is good.
(Not saying anything about used-car salesmen that hasn't already been said, mind you.)
Anyway, it's been a few days. Things are good, minus all the rain. The backyard, again, has turned into a bayou. I wouldn't be surprised if we had gators. We've got a ton of frogs and mosquitoes, and with the few coyotes we've seen around the neighborhood, an alligator would be the least of our worries. It's getting all "National Geographic" up in here, and I'm not talking about the topless ladies with the plates in their lips, either.
Yesterday evening, I decided to dye my hair to hide my roots and greys, and I'm not sure what's been going on with my selection in boxed haircolor lately but somehow "light brown" on me translates to "half-shade above black with non-subtle green undertones." To celebrate my ugly locks, I decided to chop about a third of it right off. I know that pisses my husband off because I happen to be an "over the sink" hair-cutter, and he's a former plumber. There are so many things I've been doing wrong all these years and he never fails to make me feel a wee bit guilty about them. Did you know, for example, that despite the "Septic Safe!" rating on Quilted Northern, plumbers actually do not recommend that particular toilet paper for your septic tank? It's true. My husband tells me to use Charmin, which we all know leaves a ton of lint despite what the talking bears will tell you.
Bears lie. Enough said.
On that note, I guess it's time for me to go blow some more smoke up my own ass and try to earn this scholarship. Ohhh, a woman's work is never done.
Til next time,
Cherstin, out.
Maybe it's just deja vu blatantly lurking around every corner.
I'm not sure, but I hate the idea of talking about my "greatest accomplishment," or my advice to new students to help them be successful. I feel like I'm selling a used car. I'm not sure if that analogy makes me the salesperson or the car, but neither is good.
(Not saying anything about used-car salesmen that hasn't already been said, mind you.)
Anyway, it's been a few days. Things are good, minus all the rain. The backyard, again, has turned into a bayou. I wouldn't be surprised if we had gators. We've got a ton of frogs and mosquitoes, and with the few coyotes we've seen around the neighborhood, an alligator would be the least of our worries. It's getting all "National Geographic" up in here, and I'm not talking about the topless ladies with the plates in their lips, either.
Yesterday evening, I decided to dye my hair to hide my roots and greys, and I'm not sure what's been going on with my selection in boxed haircolor lately but somehow "light brown" on me translates to "half-shade above black with non-subtle green undertones." To celebrate my ugly locks, I decided to chop about a third of it right off. I know that pisses my husband off because I happen to be an "over the sink" hair-cutter, and he's a former plumber. There are so many things I've been doing wrong all these years and he never fails to make me feel a wee bit guilty about them. Did you know, for example, that despite the "Septic Safe!" rating on Quilted Northern, plumbers actually do not recommend that particular toilet paper for your septic tank? It's true. My husband tells me to use Charmin, which we all know leaves a ton of lint despite what the talking bears will tell you.
Bears lie. Enough said.
On that note, I guess it's time for me to go blow some more smoke up my own ass and try to earn this scholarship. Ohhh, a woman's work is never done.
Til next time,
Cherstin, out.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
The Spouse, Ver 2.0
It is happening again: I can't sleep.
Something happens to a mother's hearing just after delivering her baby: It goes bionic, and it stays bionic for at least four years. (Her hearing, not her child or her placenta.) But the hearing purposely does not go bionic on a 24/7 basis because we honestly don't need to hear everything. It goes bionic only when the children are asleep, in case of--you know--danger. Or bears.
Bionic hardly covers it. I have been asleep in my bed, door closed, and I have heard the sound of a falling feather hit the roof of our house, shaken off a flock of birds flying overhead. I sat up, opened my eyes, and shouted, "Whichever one of you boys just threw that grey and white feather needs to knock it off right now!"
True story.
But once I'm up, I'm up. My mind doesn't seem to give a shit if this is happening at 6am, 4am, or 2am. Once I've crossed that pivotal point where I'm actually reacting to something I have heard, I start thinking about household shit. "Nothing like a 2am laundry fest," I might say. Or maybe I ponder the really strange, like, "I know the people in the Febreze commercial can't smell the mess while they're blindfolded, but that doesn't mean the mess isn't there." And then I'm baffled at what the Febreze commercial is really trying to tell us, because isn't a bad smell a sign that something somewhere needs to be cleaned up? If you spray Febreze, then aren't you just ignoring the chicken carcasses and fish bones your party guests left behind?
I'm so confused.
Anyway, where this truly becomes and issue of Good vs. Evil is when a mother with a baby monitor is married to a husband who snores. (For the record, "Sleeping Me" is Good and "Sleeping Husband that Snores" is Evil.) The baby monitor says, "Sleep lightly, dear Mother, and I'll alert you to any noise or problems." The snorer in my other ear is killing me.
Do you know the sound of a lawnmower running over a golf ball? That is what I am waking up to at my house on a "many-times-a-night" basis, but it's only happening to me. My husband somehow selfishly sleeps right through it. I've never heard anything like it, and it's only amplified because Caleb hasn't turned four yet. From what I remember with Aidan, that was when my hearing went back to normal. I could even sleep through my own alarm clock. No joke.
The worst part isn't the noises or even the snoring, though. The worst part is the absolute raw anger I feel when this stuff starts happening. Two am is no longer a good time for me. Like, if you were planning a surprise party for me and wanted it to be a lot of fun, I would highly recommend avoiding the hours of 2am to 6am. No good. Everyone but me seems to be partying at those hours nightly.
So what's the solution? I know I'm not the only person married to a snorer. It's getting so bad that I'm half-temped to sleep in my new office. No kidding. Other than constantly waking and telling him to roll over and stop snoring, what are my options?
I'd love to hear some ideas that don't involve duct tape, but at this point, I'm willing to listen to anything.
Enjoy your weekend,
Cherstin, out.
Something happens to a mother's hearing just after delivering her baby: It goes bionic, and it stays bionic for at least four years. (Her hearing, not her child or her placenta.) But the hearing purposely does not go bionic on a 24/7 basis because we honestly don't need to hear everything. It goes bionic only when the children are asleep, in case of--you know--danger. Or bears.
Bionic hardly covers it. I have been asleep in my bed, door closed, and I have heard the sound of a falling feather hit the roof of our house, shaken off a flock of birds flying overhead. I sat up, opened my eyes, and shouted, "Whichever one of you boys just threw that grey and white feather needs to knock it off right now!"
True story.
But once I'm up, I'm up. My mind doesn't seem to give a shit if this is happening at 6am, 4am, or 2am. Once I've crossed that pivotal point where I'm actually reacting to something I have heard, I start thinking about household shit. "Nothing like a 2am laundry fest," I might say. Or maybe I ponder the really strange, like, "I know the people in the Febreze commercial can't smell the mess while they're blindfolded, but that doesn't mean the mess isn't there." And then I'm baffled at what the Febreze commercial is really trying to tell us, because isn't a bad smell a sign that something somewhere needs to be cleaned up? If you spray Febreze, then aren't you just ignoring the chicken carcasses and fish bones your party guests left behind?
I'm so confused.
Anyway, where this truly becomes and issue of Good vs. Evil is when a mother with a baby monitor is married to a husband who snores. (For the record, "Sleeping Me" is Good and "Sleeping Husband that Snores" is Evil.) The baby monitor says, "Sleep lightly, dear Mother, and I'll alert you to any noise or problems." The snorer in my other ear is killing me.
Do you know the sound of a lawnmower running over a golf ball? That is what I am waking up to at my house on a "many-times-a-night" basis, but it's only happening to me. My husband somehow selfishly sleeps right through it. I've never heard anything like it, and it's only amplified because Caleb hasn't turned four yet. From what I remember with Aidan, that was when my hearing went back to normal. I could even sleep through my own alarm clock. No joke.
The worst part isn't the noises or even the snoring, though. The worst part is the absolute raw anger I feel when this stuff starts happening. Two am is no longer a good time for me. Like, if you were planning a surprise party for me and wanted it to be a lot of fun, I would highly recommend avoiding the hours of 2am to 6am. No good. Everyone but me seems to be partying at those hours nightly.
So what's the solution? I know I'm not the only person married to a snorer. It's getting so bad that I'm half-temped to sleep in my new office. No kidding. Other than constantly waking and telling him to roll over and stop snoring, what are my options?
I'd love to hear some ideas that don't involve duct tape, but at this point, I'm willing to listen to anything.
Enjoy your weekend,
Cherstin, out.
Friday, September 20, 2013
YA fiction - Why do writers assume?
I've been attempting to resurrect my blog as of late. Pick up the pieces, blow some dust off, and put this shit back together. Make it functional. Maybe even feng shui.
(I wouldn't hold your breath.)
I realized tonight that a lot of YA authors are also bloggers, and a lot of said YA author/bloggers are keen to put bits and quips of their current work for the public to peruse ... and it sucks. It's awful. There is a difference between telling a good story and being a good writer, but I'm not sure they realize that. It does, however, give me a ton of hope for my own writing, because if people are truly getting shit like that published, then by God yes there is a place for me in the market after all.
On that note, I'm off to bed. We can discuss this further if you'd like. Or we don't have to, either. I want your feedback - no more one-sided conversations. I'm going to break out of my little bungalow over here and start being social, so drop me a line and let me know you were here while I slept. In the morning, I'll come by your neck of the interweb woods. We'll have coffee. A cigarette. Whatever you're down with.
Cherstin, out. :)
(I wouldn't hold your breath.)
I realized tonight that a lot of YA authors are also bloggers, and a lot of said YA author/bloggers are keen to put bits and quips of their current work for the public to peruse ... and it sucks. It's awful. There is a difference between telling a good story and being a good writer, but I'm not sure they realize that. It does, however, give me a ton of hope for my own writing, because if people are truly getting shit like that published, then by God yes there is a place for me in the market after all.
On that note, I'm off to bed. We can discuss this further if you'd like. Or we don't have to, either. I want your feedback - no more one-sided conversations. I'm going to break out of my little bungalow over here and start being social, so drop me a line and let me know you were here while I slept. In the morning, I'll come by your neck of the interweb woods. We'll have coffee. A cigarette. Whatever you're down with.
Cherstin, out. :)
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