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Back in October, I wrote a post about reviews. In it, I said that I had no intention of reading reviews of my own books (assuming I sell something).
Apparently over the weekend, a well-known author (whose books I have enjoyed) took public exception to a review she received. (I’m hearing about this after the fact.) I mostly understand the emotion behind what she did — I’ve had reviews that stung, that depressed me for days. And that was only on two books. I can understand cursing the reviewer and all her offspring, writing nastygrams (on paper, so they don’t get loose, or using a computer not connected to the internet), all that.
I can even understand the impulse to take one’s unhappiness public, attacking those that have hurt you. However — as many people have pointed out when discussing this — you can’t win when you’re the author. You can only make yourself look badly, and bring attention to something you might have preferred stayed hidden.
Which is yet another reason not to read reviews of my work.
Why am I watching ‘Die Hard 2′, which features a plane exploding, when I’m flying in two weeks…and I’m already afraid of flying? The movie’s so stupid, it shouldn’t make any difference, but still…
I’m going to Washington D.C., for RWA’s National conference. The last time I went to DC for RWA’s National conference, the Concord blew up on take-off in Paris. I arrived at the hotel to footage of a plane exploding. I sincerely hope that doesn’t happen again.
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Today was another busy day, though I haven’t got much done on the writing front (yet). I did three loads of laundry, went to the gym, did a little food shopping and got the chance to spend time with my sisters. That alone makes it a fabulous day.
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I finished The Sixth Wife last night. I don’t think it ’s a keeper — I doubt I’ll re-read it — but I don’t regret spending the money on it. I thought the portrayals of Elizabeth Tudor and Jane Grey were very interesting and expect they’ll color my view of those two women going forward. It’s surprising to me how vivid those portrayals were, given how little time either woman spent on the page.
Of course, now I have no idea what I’m going to read. It’s not the book version of ‘57 Channels and Nothing On’ — I don’t think any of the 500 books I have is a dud. I just don’t know which of them is next.
My sister G, with whom I generally jaunt on Saturdays, had other plans, so I was on my own today. I got up, rode the exercise bike, and did a lot of work on my story. The spreadsheet I have that tracks my progress says I wrote 656 words today, but I’m skeptical — it didn’t feel as if I wrote over 600 words. But maybe I did. This morning is kind of a blur. I do know I got a lot done because the scene I’m working on — the everlasting turning point scene — is nearly finished.
Well, as finished as it will be until final revisions.
Other than that, I feel as if I’ve been active and productive, but I couldn’t tell you what I did if you begged.
Now I want ice cream, but I don’t think I’m getting any.
Oh, well. Probably better for me all around.
I used to have a roommate who would sometimes say, when her behavior or attitude was questioned, that she was the way she was and she couldn’t change it. That annoyed my then-boyfriend, who wanted to be a psychologist; he believed you could become anything you wanted to be, and my roommate was choosing not to change.
I was reminded of this tonight because I borrowed the complete first season of Showtime’s The Tudors from the library. As I said before about the end of the third season, the series is more like a weird dream of Henry VIII’s reign than anything truly accurate. I’m also reading Suzannah Dunn’s The Sixth Wife, which is about Katherine Parr, narrated by her friend Catherine Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk. In the book, Katherine Parr is Kate, Catherine Brandon is Cathy, Edward Seymour is Ed, and Edward VI is Eddie.
A few years ago, I would have found the historical license taken by both series and book intolerable, and I would have said that my opinion on that subject would not change. But it has. Both series and book are doing something I tried to do in Prince of Hearts: come at the period from a different perspective. In my case, I wanted to indicate that the English Reformation didn’t happen because Henry VIII had the hots for Anne Boleyn, who wouldn’t sleep with him for anything less than a sure promise of marriage, and the only way to make that happen was to break with Rome. The roots of such a radical change go deeper and farther.
Not that I necessarily think it’s what the producers or author intended, per se. It’s just the choices they’ve made have that consequence. In Dunn’s case, in addition to using modern nicknames (which works for me as a technique for dealing with the confusing and repeating given names of the Tudor period), she comes at the story of Katherine Parr and Thomas Seymour with language that feels 20th, not 16th, century. This, for me, has the effect of making the story seem more real, the people human beings and not stiff portraits on a wall. I know the story so well that it’s refreshing to me to see it from this altered perspective. I’m getting it in a new way, something I wouldn’t have thought possible a year ago.
Okay, so that’s a change. Does that mean I agree with the ex-boyfriend? Erm, no. I think there are fundamental things about who we are that don’t change, not at a basic level. How we express those things changes, but not their existence. For example, I feel things intensely. (This isn’t just my perception; this is something other people have observed.) I felt things intensely when I was very small; my memories of my fierce little heart are vivid. In between, I swallowed and smothered those feelings, cutting myself off from them. But they were still there.
This is all well and good, but is there are a larger point?
Of course there is. All of this goes into my writing. Everything, everything, is grist for the mill. As a writer, part of my job is to figure out which things are fundamental to my characters, and which things will change.
Usually, headaches start when I’m asleep and fade away late in the afternoon. Today, one started after 4:00. It’s the kind that stabs me in the temple and upsets my stomach. Bleah. I managed to write anyway, but I’m creeping off to bed as soon as it gets dark.
Which will be later than it has been, because there’s no overcast to darken things prematurely.
Some days are better than others.
Hee.
I wrote another 368 words today, which means I’ve replaced all but 8 of the words I cut day before yesterday. That’s very sweet, but what’s even sweeter is that when I reviewed what I wrote yesterday, I discovered it’s definitely much better than the version it replaced.
Of course, I’ve run completely out of gas, and have no idea what to next, but I don’t need to know that tonight. I just need to know that my story’s getting stronger.
Another happy day.
Very little to say tonight — but one thing I really want to say: You know you’re on the right track with a scene when you write over 1,000 words in a single day. I’ve replaced almost everything I cut out yesterday, at least in terms of volume. In terms of quality, I think I’ve done more than replace what I cut.
Which is the whole point of cutting it all.
I’m very happy tonight.
I think I’ve figured out what’s wrong with the scene I’ve been struggling with for the last week or so: I don’t know what the POV character wants. I’m not a purist when it comes to the POV character having a scene goal, but this is one scene where I think it’s absolutely necessary. One thing a scene goal does is organize the events of the scene, providing a focal point for everything else.
I’m not sure yet what he wants, but that’s okay. Just knowing what I have to figure out is a huge step in the right direction.
This probably means I have to throw out a good chunk of the stuff I’ve written in the last week or so, but so be it. I think writing everything I wrote was necessary to get me to this point, and so none of it’s wasted, even if it’s all discarded. You do what you have to do.
I realized tonight that the longer I write this story, the more obvious it becomes that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Worse, the more I write it, the more I bite off, which really means I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
Writing that, I realize the possibility of this being a giant, massive fail, a fail of astounding proportions, is very real. This thing could so totally fall apart because I just don’t have the brains or the skills to pull it all together.
But I won’t know unless I try it, and I have to confess, I’m thrilled and exhilarated by the possibility of a spectacular crash and burn. If you fail big, it means you dared big, and I’m proud of myself for that.
Still, sometimes it all freaks me out just a little bit.
