In Which we write the Most Emdashes Ever

Sometimes I think I can’t be a real writer because I don’t actually want to write most of the time. I read interviews with people who say well of course I feel compelled to write at least an hour every day, every writer does, and I think they do? Do they not have Netflix?

I like to follow Catherine Ryan Howard’s blog posts and tweets because she freely admits to having announced that she was going to write a novel and then doing absolutely nothing for seven years. This is more my style.

(Though I’d never dream of making a public announcement about it. It drives me crazy when people ask what I’m doing these days and I can’t think of a way to avoid admitting the awful truth—I, um, I am trying to be a writer. Not sure it counts if you’re not published yet. So I’m not a writer, I’m just trying to be. I also clean rooms at a hotel.)

When I sit down to write, when the excuses have run out, when my internet connection has failed with only three minutes left of an episode of Doctor Who and I have stopped screaming and throwing things at the router—when I actually open the document that contains my sci-fi novel or my zombie screenplay or my chick-flick screenplay depending on which one I’ve completely, utterly and permanently given up on most recently (let’s be honest, the zombie story is going nowhere, it’s time for the secure delete on that one)—when I look at the page, and begin reading what I did yesterday, and realize that I’m actually going to do it, to try to write again—

It’s really very hard to express the feeling that descends. Not despair—there’s more drama in despair. Not resignation—there would be more productivity with true resignation.

It’s sort of the feeling one imagines you would get after being reconditioned by Big Brother.

The Winston after Room 101 feeling.

And then I write.

Unfortunately.

Origin Story

Did I ever tell you about the birth of the Awful Space Opera?

No?

Well, you see, it was like this:

I’ve been planning to “be a writer” for as long as I can remember. But, unlike practically every successful author ever, I didn’t start writing until I was an adult.

And I hated it.

Not the process, as such, but my writing. It was so terrible. So very, very bad. So much worse than every piece of bad writing I had ever read anywhere and I used to read Harlequin Teen romances.

This went on for years.

I decided to get a job at a newspaper, because one had to get a job somewhere, and I figured I needed practice. Writing for a newspaper is fun. If you like that sort of thing—the person I replaced and the person who replaced me both hated it, but I had a wonderful, wonderful time. But I soon realized it was the wrong sort of practice. Journalism and writing fiction are very different things. If you want to write fiction, eventually you have to just do it.

So I did. For maybe ten minutes. Then I got stuck. But I had other ideas—I never, ever run out of ideas—so I decided to try something else. Got stuck again.

After spending a week or two beginning unfinished projects (mostly comic screenplays—somewhere between the ages of ten and twenty I outgrew my passion for historical romance novels), I realized that something had to change. And that something was: Standards. I needed to get rid of them.

You see, my writing is still dreadful. Even after struggling along with it for two years, it is vile. (Every now and then someone reads this site and says, hey, you’re a good writer, and I really appreciate it, I do, but if you read any of my fictional work you would take it back.) But squirming at my lack of talent was holding me back.

The only way to ever get anything done was to embrace the hack within.

So I decided to start a side project, the Story With No Standards. To establish our low expectations, I began with the universally acknowledged Worst Opening Line, courtesy of Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” I typed cheerfully.

Immediately I was transported back in time: I am in my grandmother’s yard, standing on the trunk of the collapsed apple tree, the one that we always used as a bridge across the creek, and my cousin is telling a terrible joke, based on Bulwer-Lytton.

I was probably nine, which would make him ten, but that’s not really an adequate excuse for this joke.

So I added the joke: “It was a dark and stormy night. They were all sitting around the campfire. The captain said to the mate, ‘Tell us a story.’ And the mate said, ‘Okay. It was a dark and stormy night. They were all sitting around the campfire. And the captain said to the mate…’” (I’m not sure when you’re supposed to stop telling the joke—my cousin seemed to think you weren’t.)

So—I had a dark and stormy night, a campfire, a large group of people led by a captain and his mate, hello, shipwreck! No, make that spaceship wreck!

And that is how, with no planning or preparation whatsoever, I became a writer of bad science fiction.

The Road to Texas, Phase I, Part II, Attempt III

Two (three?) months ago I wrote what was supposed to be the first of a two-part post. I have tried repeatedly to complete the second half, but it just isn’t working. So I’m giving up. (The beauty of being one’s own publisher, yes?)

Suffice it to say …

You see? I have no words.

One of the great things about turning thirty is that I’ve begun to have a pretty good sense of my own limitations. Such as knowing the kind of work environment that makes my work output grow progressively worse over time. This is gives certain choices a bit more clarity: Sometimes it’s less a question of quitting now or hanging on till something better comes along, than of quitting now or getting fired later.

It is hurtful to tell someone that they have the people-managing skills of a lobotomized honey badger, but if the alternative is waiting to collapse under the strain and then getting sacked, well, then, that would be hurtful to me.

And I am nothing if not attentive to the needs of number one.

The most attractive thing about this job was that it was a sort of skilled labor, which made it less dull than my other option—hotel housekeeping. But in the right circumstances, housekeeping gains a certain je nai sais qua.

And, the boredom can prompt useful acts of desperation, such as walking into the local newspaper unannounced and asking for work.

So now I’m a maid. And also an underemployed freelance journalist. 

Sorrows of the armchair critic

When I turned six, a boy a year younger than me gave me a handmade birthday card. I told him birds and clouds don’t really look like that. 

Also, I wasn't really sure how the black birds on pink paper motif had any relevance to celebrating another year of maturity. It all seemed sort of random. I wasn’t trying to be mean; I just thought he might like to know. 

It is very, very hard to switch to being an author when you’re a critic at heart.

The Road to Texas, Phase 1

I’ve tried various approaches to this writer thing. Last year, it was all about being a deadbeat mooch, pretending money wasn’t important and focusing on my Art.

Then I tried being a World Traveler and Self-Sacrificing Volunteer.

Soon, all the unimportant money had dribbled away. I had deep doubts about the value of my volunteering. (Some people are born to make a difference. Some people should really go back to work and just send money.) And the Art—hah! Pah! And even, bah!

That’s when I remembered the whole starving-artist-with-a-menial-job thing. It’s unpleasant, yes, but it has all that romance and cachet and stuff.

Restaurant work seemed the most traditional choice. The application process, however, was tricky. I waited tables in college but in the subsequent ten years, I had made an important self-discovery: I kind of hate people a little. (See item re: volunteering, above.) I really, really, really don’t like depending on being cheerful and friendly and helpful for my daily bread. True, at the very highest levels, wait staff are expected to be cold and snooty, but we really don’t have those kinds of restaurants here in Dog Patch, and I wouldn’t be qualified for them if we did.

So, I put in a bunch of applications at various establishments, listing my experience as a server, but gently encouraging them to consider me for any position but.

Confusing for people.

Lately I’ve been trying to have a more honest and open approach to life, but my ‘I hate people and do not wish to serve them’ explanation seemed ill-advised.

And then I heard about the Café.

They were hiring for the summer.

They didn’t require experience, preferring to train their help themselves, rather than deal with people used to other restaurants’ systems.

They were looking for a kitchen helper who would be on the fast track to a supervisorial position.

It sounded too good to be true …

…

…

.

Funny how these things work out.

Watch this space for Part II of Phase I (shut up) in the coming days!

Dum dum dummmmm.

Citizenship

In preparation for my impending move, I've been doing a little research on Texas. Since it's an election year, it suddenly occurred to me that I might be moving to (gasp) an Early Primary State.

This is a crucial question: As you all undoubtedly know, or at least all of you who are Americans (my stats keep picking up hits from Russia, for some reason), voters who want to have an actual impact in a presidential election need to vote in a primary.Or live in a swing state.

Thing is, I don't really want to have an impact. Who needs that kind of responsibility? I don't like politicians, as rule, so voting early just means choosing the lesser of two (or eight) evils. That means research, and that means paying attention to parts of the news that don't involve a burglar shooting his own foot after the cat knocks over the tropical fish bowl.

As it turns out, there is both good news and bad news: the Texas primary, in April, is not as irrelevant as North Carolina's (May), but neither is it as nearly-competitive as the one in Georgia (March), where I was a registered voter (and odd job reporter covering local political issues!) for five exciting years.

It’s my party and I’ll have dragons if I want to

I don’t care what anyone* says: The flying reptiles are BACK ON.

My whole life, I've wanted to live in a world with pterodactyls, and I edit them out of a schlocky fantasy novel because they're “stupid?” Who exactly are we kidding here?

Of course, this means extra work. Because I have actually  made a lot of progress in cutting the giant lizards out. And some might say my constant waffling makes a highly convenient way to procrastinate on finding some kind of conclusion for the plot. Maybe it is. Maybe I just want to avoid getting deep into that tedious escape sequence again. I don’t care.

HERE, THERE BE DRAGONS.

*Including me.