Storytelling

Reading Terrible Books Isn’t a Waste of Time

| rachelhamm

A writer I really admire said the greatest piece of advice she can give to aspiring writers is to read good literature.  And she isn’t the only person I’ve heard/read this piece of advice from.  It makes sense: read good literature, learn what works.  Read enough good literature and you’ll see patterns, rules, and formulas emerge.  When you are first getting started, this is incredibly helpful.

I’ve been a lover of classic literature since my youth.  I read Little Women at age 10.  Next came Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol.  High school introduced me to Pride and Prejudice and my instantaneous love of all things Austen.  During college and for several years after, I rarely bought a book unless it was considered a “classic.” (Harry Potter being the obvious exception!)  All that changed with those damn Twilight books.

For the record, I read all four books in about a week.  Also for the record, I saw immediately the lack of quality in the writing of Twilight, which enhanced my perception of the brilliance of the writing in my beloved classics.  To this day, I will tell anyone who asks that, yes, I’ve read Twilight.  I will also tell them that I’m not a “fan” of Twilight, but I have to admire Stephanie Myers a little anyways.

The quality of the writing in Twilight is very poor, in my opinion.  It’s all adjectives and repetition and teenage angst.  However, the plotting- the actual story and the world created- is pretty damn good.  I read all four books because even though I was annoyed by the poor writing quality, I was caught up in the story.  I wanted to know what happened.  It also made me want to write.

Before I read the Twilight books, the only thing I could have compared my own writing to was Austen, Dickens, Eliott, Hardy, etc.  How could I compete with such masters of storytelling?  I would always find myself lacking.  I never even gave writing a thought, and I think that’s why.

But after reading Twilight, I felt confident that I could write something, if not better, than at least AS good.  And if Stephanie Myers could write a 4 book series, the least I could do would be to write one book.  So I did.

I’m so glad I read the series.  It gave me a week’s work of guilty pleasure and a lifetime of satisfaction in knowing that I managed to write a book.  My book probably isn’t ever going to be published and while I like it, I can’t testify with any certainty to it’s quality.  But that’s not even the point, is it?  Knowing that I accomplished something so huge as simply putting the words down on paper and making sense out of them is enough.

I recently started reading another book, which I also find to be lacking in the quality-writing department.  Friends kept mentioning the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy to me (and later the Fifty Shades of Grey movie), insisting that I read it.  Like Twilight, I resisted for as long as I could, but eventually my curiosity got the better of me.  Unlike Twilight, I was prepared for less-than-stellar writing.  I’d read a few reviews and looked up the backstory behind the book (it started out as Twilight Fan Fiction then was self-published. There’s that damn Twilight again).  I knew what to expect.

My expectations were met- which isn’t often said for books.  The book isn’t bad (so maybe the title of this post should be “Reading Just Okay Books Isn’t a Waste of Time”), it’s just not good.  The writing quality is okay, there aren’t any major grammatical errors and it’s easy to read, but it feels forced a lot of the time.  The author likes adjectives and repetition, just like Mrs. Myers, and, in my opinion, she likes to sound smart (some of you may question my use of the word “sound” here, maybe you’d like “appear” better?).  But in attempting to sound smart, she comes off as the opposite, and frankly it makes me think that she’s trying too hard.  Writing should flow, it should feel natural and easy, but as I’m reading it, I can’t help but wonder if she had a dictionary, thesaurus, and medical journal open in front of her at all times so she could find the perfect, intelligent-sounding words for every occasion.  I’m only half-way through the book and she’s already used the term “medulla oblongata” TWICE.  Really?  Is that necessary?  I don’t think so (unless you are the Waterboy).  Also, her characters “giggle” way too much for 20-somethings.

I worry now that I may be coming off as trying to sound smart, too, so I’ll get to my point.  I’m appreciating this book because of it’s writing.  I know, that’s confusing, isn’t it?  What I mean is, I appreciate seeing all of the things I don’t like because it makes me realize changes I need to make to my own book.  I know I still have a long way to go before Twenty-Five is publishable (even self-publishable).  I find myself noting similarities between Fifty Shades and Twenty-Five and realizing that I have a lot of editing to do to produce the quality of writing I want representing me.

So I will persevere.  I will finish the book.  I may even read the whole series.  I probably won’t call myself a fan, but I’ll probably like it in the end.  Not in the same way I like P&P or Bleak House, but in the same way I like Twilight: as a satisfying-in-the-moment guilty pleasure whose movie(s) will probably be much, much better than the actual book(s).  And I’ll continue to allow myself to get talked into reading these trendy books, because just like great literature teaches me how to be great, terrible books teach me how not to be.

           

Short Story- The Painting

| rachelhamm

I don’t know if other things remember their birth or point of creation, but I don’t.  The first moment of existence I can recall is being surrounded by darkness- but I know I existed before that moment because I’ve heard talk of where I came from before it.  But that is my earliest memory: blank darkness, the rustle of paper, and being jostled around while steadily gliding forward.  Or perhaps it was backwards, or sideways even.  And muffled sounds- music: percussion, hard strings, and indistinguishable lyrics.  No talking at first.  No human conversation.  That came later.

I don’t know how much later.  Time moves differently for me than it does for you, I would imagine.  You have the luxury of clocks and calendars; you can quantify time in minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years.  I can’t.  It almost doesn’t exist for me.  The concept does, but not the measurement.

The next moment I knew I existed started with ripping and then, finally, light.  I wasn’t blind before, but covered in a plain brown paper I watched get thrown aside as a young woman’s pale and dainty hands gripped either side of me and held me up for closer inspection.

“Beautiful,” she sighed.

“I knew you’d like it.  The instant I saw it at the gallery, I knew it belonged to you,” another voice said.  Deeper in tone, it came from behind me, I imagine the man it belonged to wanted to see the look on her face when she first saw me.  And I like to believe he got the reaction he’d been hoping for, because her face was pure loveliness as she gazed upon me.  Bright blue eyes, whose intelligence seemed to grow as she let her attention scan up and down, back and forth, taking in every detail I had to offer, rested above a straight, simple nose and flushed, well-defined cheeks.  Her smile stretched wider and illuminated her brilliant eyes when she redirected her sights to the gentleman behind me.  One hand released my frame and pushed brunette hair off a smooth forehead.

“It’s perfect.  Thank you.  I love you.”  With that, I was set aside and could no longer stare in wonder at her face- but it wouldn’t be the last time I saw it.  In fact, I saw it forever after that- sometimes in fleeting moments as she’d walk past me, going from one room to another, and sometimes in marathon sessions when she’d sit alone on the brown leather couch, her feet tucked under her, a narrow knit blanket around her shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate warming her hands as she lost herself in whatever world the sight of me created in her imagination.

Of course, once I had a permanent place, I saw his face, too.  It never seemed to express any honest emotions, though.  At least, that was my assessment.  In the beginning, she didn’t seem to notice this- she would hug or kiss him any chance she got- he alone was rewarded with her most joyous laughter.  And he generally seemed pleased with her, but gone was the anticipation, the eagerness with which he’d waited for her reaction over me.  I never heard him say, “I love you.”

I didn’t know her laughter had stopped until one day I ached from its obvious absence.  She began looking at me more and more often, with an earnest desire of longing and hopeless sadness etched in her pretty eyes.  I wanted to find a way to comfort her, knowing all her contemplation was no comfort at all.  Torturous, more likely.

I did know when she reached her breaking point, though.  It would have been pretty difficult to miss.  The man had long ceased to pass by me and she had begun to revert her eyes whenever she was in my room, until suddenly, things were in boxes and two strange men carried the brown leather couch out of my view.  A blonde lady I’d seen many times before gripped the sides of my frame and lifted.

“Is this going with you or him?”

“It’s mine.  It was a present.  But I don’t think I can look at it anymore- too many memories.”

“What are you going to do with it, then?”

She shrugged and started to weep.  The blonde set me down, turned against the wall so I could no longer see either of them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it for you.”

Darkness once again and the sick feeling that I’d never see her again- that there would never again be a smile so genuine in the face of anyone who looked at me.

When the darkness lifted, some time later, I found myself in a white, square room.  On the opposite wall hung other paintings and portraits whose stories I’ll never know.  I could see the outlines of more frames in my peripheral.  People walk by in streams.  I can see their faces.  Their pensive, intelligent, stupid, bored, happy, sad faces.  Their smiles are never enough.  No smile belongs to her.

I Dislike Conflict…

| rachelhamm

In real life.  I mean, I really hate it.  I can’t stand fighting or debating or even disagreeing with someone else.  And it literally makes me sick when someone is angry with me or thinks I’ve done a bad job or criticizes me.  Makes me want to vomit and keeps me awake at night.  And even months later, if I think back to a person who has been angry with me, I find myself saying “I hate my life.”  I’m totally serious about that.

So, aside from the obvious- I need a therapist- I tend to stay away from conflict as much as possible (okay that was probably pretty obvious, too).

Not really a very good quality for a writer.

Because a writer needs to understand conflict.  Needs to be able to dissect it and take out all the little pieces and understand why each character feels the way they do and why they would do what they do and why what they feel and what they do causes problems for other characters.  Still with me?

Also, if you can’t take criticism, your writing will never live up to its full potential.

But back to understanding conflict.

On the first draft of Twenty-Five I constantly got feedback that there wasn’t any conflict.  That the problems the characters faced weren’t really in the conflict realm because they were so easily resolved.  That there wasn’t one overarching conflict holding the story together.

So on the “second” draft I tried to bring out more conflict.

And now on the “third” draft, I’m trying to bring out even more, because if a book needs an overarching conflict, I still don’t think I have it.

Because in Twenty-Five, the conflict is life.  And living a new relationship.  And learning how to love.  Sometimes it’s really great.  Because falling in love is great.  And sometimes it’s a little blah, because life is a little blah.  But what real conflict do we have in life?  I don’t have one overarching thing that holds the story of my life together.  And I don’t think the characters in my book need to either.

Yes, I realize I’m probably crazy.  No publisher or agent is going to want a book that doesn’t have a conflict.  But when I started writing this book over a year ago, my goal was to write a book without a hook, without a gimmick.  Just a story as real-to-life as possible about the beginning of a relationship.  Isn’t that conflict enough?  I mean really.  What’s more difficult in this world than starting a relationship with someone new?

I think this whole desire to avoid conflict at all costs is one of the things preventing me from finishing any of my other novel ideas (characterization is another big problem I have.  And description.  I hate description.  And prose, too.  I don’t hate prose, I’m just no good at it.  Dialogue- I’m good at dialogue).  Because for the most part, a story has no where to go if it has no higher conflict.  That’s what makes Twenty-Five so special though, I think.  I managed to write a story about two people and that’s all it’s about.  Two people and their love for each other.  A love story is what most people want for themselves, right?

I realize that my posts lately have really been lacking in the substance department.  I hope this makes up for it a little bit.  But what you have to understand about me is that I really don’t have a lot of substance- at least not in the way a writer/blogger should have substance.  I wish I did, but I know that I don’t.  I’m not deep.  I read a lot, but I usually can’t have an intellectual conversation about books.  I can’t really put into words how something makes me feel.  I find it difficult to stay on topic and to argue a point of view.

Because arguing, after all, is too much like conflict.

So, these random, journal-like, entries are what you get when you come to I Picked Up A Pen One Day.  I’m sorry if you wanted advice on how to be a better writer.  Or to see the process of what going from start to finish on a book looks like.  Or the kinship of another intellectual pursuing their true passion while the world holds them back.  I can’t be those things.  I wish I could be.  But I can’t.

I know what you’re thinking- Never say “I Can’t” because you can!

I don’t want to be someone I’m not.  So, sometimes, saying “I Can’t” is the best thing I can do for myself.

Wow, this has really wandered from my original topic.

Back to conflict.  I don’t like it.  I don’t want to write it.  So maybe I’ll try and be the conflict-less writer.  And maybe I’ll still be unpublished 50 years from now.  And maybe that is just going to have to be okay.

Milestone Update: This is my 96th post!  There are 23 days until my One year Blogiversary!

And a little thing that makes me happy: GLEE!  That show is so stinkin’ amazing!

Upcoming Milestones

| rachelhamm

I realized the other day that I have 3 HUGE milestones coming up for my blog.

Milestone 1: 100 posts

Milestone 2: 5,000 hits

Milestone 3: The One year Anniversary!!!

As it stands currently, this is my 91st post, I have 4,843 hits, and eight weeks and 2 days until my one year Blogiversary.

Now, wouldn’t it be freaking fantastic if somehow I managed to hit all three milestones on the same day (October 15th).  Not just fantastic, but fabulous.   FANTABULOUS!

The first one I have control over, I can spread my posts out over the next two months so that my 100th falls on the right day.  The third one is inevitable- the day must come, the anniversary will exist no matter what.

The second one, though, I have no control over.  So it’s up to you guys- my readers (can I call you friends?  fans?  or is that too weird.  Yeah, it’s a little weird.  We’ll stick with reader friends).  I need you to help me get the word out.  I need 157 hits by October 15- but I can’t go over that until October 16!

I know, I’m weird.  But I’ve never tried to hide that.

So, what do you think?  Doable?  or Pipe dream?

I say Doable!

To celebrate the one year anniversary, I plan on posting a week of my favorite posts, so if you have any suggestions, feel free to comment below and that will help me start planning.  I’m a planner, it’s what I do.

I’m also thinking of starting some sort of weekly story post.  I’ve seen it on a lot of other blogs and it seems popular and a good way to find new followers.  Would you guys prefer for me to post a current WIP or something new?  It would probably encourage me to actually finish a WIP, but if it was something new I could tailor it to a weekly blog post, make the segments short and it wouldn’t have to be novel length when finished.  Hmm…  I could always post Twenty-Five, that would get me back on the editing warpath.  Or would it be horrible of me to steal the idea of other bloggers?  Well, I have 2 months to decide, I’m not going to start anything until after the anniversary.

And a little thing that makes me happy: learning that maybe I don’t suck at networking after all.  I was absolutely delightful at last night’s greater triangle chapter ISES meeting.

I Didn’t Win

| rachelhamm

TNBW’s 2010 Strongest Start Competition for the Romance Category.  It really doesn’t come as a surprise, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.  Apparently Twenty-Five, the only book I’ve been able to actually finish, is a victim of first book syndrome.  It will never get anywhere because it just isn’t good.  I should put it in a drawer and work on other projects, but it’s so hard to get the characters out of my head.  Ben is the only character I have left who still talks to me- and that’s with 6 or 7 different projects that I’ve started.  Everyone else seems to have thrown in the towel, I think they want me to throw in the towel too.

I don’t want to.

But I’m worried I’m going to have to.

No, I won’t.

I don’t want to be a quitter. But what if this isn’t right?  What if I really do suck?  What if I’m not supposed to be a writer?

Do you enjoy it?

When I actually have time to do it, yes.

Then what makes you think you aren’t supposed to be a writer?

I suck.

Everyone sucks.

Touche.  But I mean, I suck at THIS.  I suck at writing.  I get told all the time that my stories aren’t original, no one seems to “get” what I’m trying to say.

You don’t suck.

Yes, I do.

I’m going to smack you.

You won’t be the first one who’s threatened to do that.

I’ll be the first one to follow through.

No, you won’t.  Because you are me.  And I never follow through on anything.

That’s not true!

Sure it is.  Look at me.  I graduated college Summa Cum Laude with a degree in Criminal Justice.  Have I EVER pursued a career in criminal justice?

You applied to law school.

But I didn’t go.

Do you regret that?

Sometimes.

Why?

Because then maybe I’d be doing something worth while.

You think your life isn’t worth while?

Exactly.

Why not?

Why not?  Why not?  Because I’m stuck.  I work three jobs and I still can’t afford to live on my own.  I’m tired and grumpy all the time.  No guy has ever wanted to be with me and I truly believe no guy ever will.  Nothing I do makes any difference whatsoever.  My writing is crap, I don’t even know why I try.

Isn’t it true that more people tell you they like your writing than tell you they dislike it?

Technically, I suppose.

Technically, you suppose?  You are infuriating.  Why can’t you believe in yourself more?

Because there’s nothing to believe in.

Yes, there is.

No, there isn’t.

We’ve been here before.

And we’ll be back again.

Why did you enter the contest in the first place?

I was hoping to get some validation, I suppose.  Something quantifiable.  I’ve never won a single contest I’ve entered, writing or otherwise.  I just wanted to feel like I could do something right.  That I could be a winner.  I thought maybe Twenty-Five would have a shot.  I was wrong.

It made it to the finals.

The finals isn’t winning.

It’s closer than losing.

Well, aren’t you clever?

I like to think so.

Do you really think I can ever get anywhere with this?  Is there even a chance that someone out there will ever think that my writing is great, or at least good enough?

Yes.

Really?

Sometimes.

But not all the time?

Well, of course I have doubts.  I’m you.  You’re me.  You’re having this conversation with yourself, idiot.

I AM an idiot.

And you’d be hella boring if you weren’t one.

Thanks for that.

You’re welcome.

But a little thing that made me happy today:  My friend, Ang, DID win the Strongest Start Competition in the Romance Category.  Congratulations Ang!  You’re an amazing writer and I’m happy to call you a friend!

Creative Void

| rachelhamm

I’m feeling a bit of a creative void.  It’s not writer’s block, it’s more of a listlessness.  A non-desire to write, create, produce.

I got a really bad review of a chapter of Twenty-Five a couple of weeks ago.  The reader said the characters were cookie cutter, the sentence structure monotonous, and the dialogue cliche.  They said “there’s no story here.”

Of course, reading a review like that is like diving head first into freezing cold water.  It’s a shock to the system.  You wonder- did this person read my work and actually think that?  or were they just being mean and spiteful?  I have to believe that it’s a little bit of a mixture of the two extremes.

I know, deep in my heart, that my characters are not cookie cutter.  They have histories, dreams, plans for the future.  I know what they look like, how they act, their likes and dislikes.  I’ve thought them through completely and I didn’t just base them on the archetypal characters you see in book after book, story after story.  However, I can understand how, in an isolated chapter, without the buildup of the beginning of the story and their relationship, a reader would miss their complexity and depth.

With the monotonous sentence structure comment, I think the reader may have a point.  I’ve been reading through my book slowly the last couple of nights and I think I do have issues with varying sentence structure.  There just aren’t that many ways to structure a series of actions without getting into lavish descriptions and similes and metaphors, which I hate.  So, one of my goals is to find fresher ways of saying what I want to say.

As far as the dialogue being cliche, I have to say- WHOA.  I am really surprised anyone would say that about my dialogue because if there’s one thing  that 99.99% of my readers have agreed on, it’s my realistic dialogue.  I can only assume that this is another instance of the isolated chapter, but will defend myself a little in saying that real people in real life use cliches when they talk.  Cliches are around for a reason- they are recognizable, memorable.  Just about everything we say in everyday life can be considered cliche.  For example, if I write this exchange:

“Hey.”

“Hey, how are you?”

“Fine, you?”

“Fine.”

is the cliche police going to strike it down and tell me I can’t use it?

The last comment is the one that really hurt.  “There’s no story here.”  I’ve put my blood, sweat, and tears into this book for the past year (and yes, I realize blood, sweat, and tears is cliche, too) and for someone to tell me there’s no story there, I mean, I can’t even express how much that hurts.  I know its not the first bad review that I’ve gotten, and I know it won’t be the last, but DAMN!  I would never tell someone that there was no “story” in their story.  Because anyone who writes has a story they are trying to tell.  And yes, some stories need more work than others, but everything is a story.  Life is a story.

So all of that to say that it’s been really hard for me to write lately.  I don’t want to be a failure and yet that’s how a review like that makes me feel.  Everyone says, “you’ve got to have a thick skin to make it in this industry.”  But isn’t that true of any industry, of any career?  Is that why I’m still stuck in limbo, I don’t have a thick enough skin?  Am I going to be a failure for the rest of my life?  Am I going to be stuck in the void for the rest of my life?

Oh ho, Check Me Out

| rachelhamm

I spent my afternoon/ evening today outlining The Death Effect with index cards, multi-colored pens and pushpins, and a cork-board.  And I was completely wrong about feeling pigeon-holed.  I feel completely the opposite.  I am inspired!

I went through the word document where I’ve been writing TDE and I made a notecard for each chapter/scene.  Each character POV got a different color pen/ink.  I then put the notecards in chronological order by character and pinned them to the board.  If I’d already written the first draft of the chapter, the notecard got a clear pin.  If I’d already written a partial first draft of the chapter, the notecard got a green pin.  And if it was just a concept/idea for the chapter, the notecard got a blue or purple pin (I didn’t have enough of one or the other color!).

As I wrote out these cards and put them in order, I found myself thinking about what happens to each character- where the story takes them.  It was amazing.  I was visualizing scenes again!  In fact, I imagined the last scene of my semi MC, Taylor, and she’s been causing me major problems lately.  You see, I tend to base my main characters on myself and the people close to me.  I can’t help it, it’s just the way I am.  One of these days I’ll write an MC who is in no way like me or anyone I know, but for now…  Okay, so back to my original point.  Taylor has been giving me a hard time lately because I like Taylor, but the person in my life who she is based on has really been pissing me off lately.  She’s been a flat out B*tch to me.  I’m sure she doesn’t read this blog, but just in case, I won’t mention her by name.  Anyways, because this real person has been pissing me off, I haven’t been able to write Taylor with any degree of objectivity or feeling.  But, this outlining exercise has really worked to get me out of my funk!  I was able to separate Taylor from my real life drama, because Taylor is experiencing a much different kind of pain than I am, and  now I know exactly where her story is going.  I’m so excited.

I’m sure that my outline will change.  In fact, when I typed it up (because I’m OCD like that- I mean what if something happens to all the cards, I needed a backup!) I already changed things.   And I’m sure that I’ll add more chapters than I have planned right now, but I feel rejuvenated.

God, I needed this.  I needed some hope.  I need something in my life that feels like it’s on an upward climb, not a downward spiral.

Part of me feels like this book is going to produce some of my best writing, yet another part of me is so scared that it will be just another thing I don’t finish.  Hopefully with this rocking outline, I’ll continue to remain motivated.

Storytelling DNA

| rachelhamm

If there is such a thing, the women in my family do not have it.

My grandmother, mother, sisters, and I are TERRIBLE at telling stories and relating anecdotes.  I don’t really know why, but any story started by one of us will inevitably end with someone listening saying in a sarcastic tone, “Good story.”

Here’s what we do.  We begin telling the story in the middle, then realize we’ve left out important information so we have to start over at the beginning.  But before telling the entire beginning, we go back to the middle.  We don’t realize we haven’t told the entire beginning until we’re almost at the end.

It’s like Marlon in Finding Nemo.  He is trying to tell a joke about a clown fish and he just can’t get started.  If you’ve seen the movie and you know the scene, that’s what its like trying to listen to my mother, sisters, or I when telling a story.

My brother, on the other hand, is absolutely hilarious.  He is the best story-teller I know.  I think all the Storytelling DNA my parents had built up and waited until he was created (he’s the youngest).

I think my lack of oral storytelling skills prevented my writing earlier in life.  I assumed that since I couldn’t SPEAK a story out loud, there was no way I could WRITE a story down.

But here’s the great thing about writing.  EDITING!  I can write the story, get all the beginnings and middles and endings sorted out in my head before I share it with anyone else.  And I’m not too shabby at that.  At least, I hope I’m not.

So I think from now on, I’ll be writing my anecdotes down and editing them before trying to share with others!  That’s what my pen is for, after all.