Monday, December 31, 2007
But now I'm not going to write about that because I'm becoming increasingly unsure about the posts I've put on this blog. I'm doing it because I'm told I should have one - even though I don't have an audience as yet. But I'm still wrangling with what I want it to be.
At the moment all I know is what I don't want it to be. Perhaps its the built-in diffidence of being a Brit but I wince every time I read a blog post which screeches about that writer's award winning story or the places it has been published, or republished, or translated. If you met someone in the pub who talked about themselves all the time they'd be a boor - same goes online. I do not read the blogs of writers (and I don't read many) to hear about how great they are. I read to get more of a sense of who they are - their view of the world. Based on a reading of many writer's blogs you could be forgiven for thinking that they are all braying hoorays.
So I'm not going to be doing that. There are some blogs I want more of and I want to emulate their slice of life/tiny story post type thing. Hence the Train of Death post below. So I want to do more of that.
And, if I'm honest, I don't know enough about SF&F to compete with the lengthy essays put out by the best in the field. And I have a limited amount of time to write so don't really want to commit that to research to make those longer pieces better when I could be writing stories and learning my trade. So, not that either. Well, only every now and then.
I think what could be useful, to offset the rampant egoism of writing this, I'll put in stuff I'm learning about writing and the trade. And what I have learned leads me to the subject of this post.
The single most important trait a writer can have, as far as I know, is persistence/dedication. Success seems not to revolve (solely?) around talent. I'm not aware of anyone that broke through with a single story sale. Perhaps it's cruel of me to admit that I was heartened to read that even Ted Chiang regularly gets rejected. So battering away at editors with story after story, showing them that you are getting better seems to be the way to break through. Familiarity in this sense breeds contentment and the willingness to take a chance and print one of your stories.
All of which has led me to set myself some pretty steep objectives for 2008. I kind of did the same in 2007 and managed to send out more stories than ever before but my approach was pretty scattershot. I'm aiming to write a story a month next year but will settle for nine - pretty paltry when folk like Jay Lake claim to write one a week - but limited time etc etc. Plus I want to make a pro sale and/or sell enough stories to join these folks.
I know I can do it. If there is one other character trait (flaw?) that writers need it is for a boundless source of hope. It's that which makes me look forward to the post every day to see if I've got any acceptances, it's that which gets me up in the early hours to write down an idea or an outline that's been battering the inside of my head like a trapped moth, it's that which drives me day after day in the face of almost 100 rejections to keep at it. All I have to do is think big.
Monday, December 17, 2007
On Thursday engrossed in The Old Curiosity Shop I looked up to see which station the train had reached (Fulham Broadway) - I've missed stations before now when swept away by a good novel. Though the upside of that is that I spend more time on the train reading. But then, I glanced around to see what everyone else was reading. And everyone I could see, everyone, was reading a book about murder. Some were crime capers, some were thrillers, some were about serial killers thwarted by the timely actions of troubled, but decent, men. But all of them involved death, mutilation, stabbings and murder. Usually on a grand scale. Odd. Usually there's some chick lit or a classic in the mix but not today. Perhaps that's the primer you need on the way in to work on a weekday. Just before Christmas.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
To be honest, to me, they come across like fundamentalist Christians - in the sense that when they are around people are wary of saying the wrong thing and breathe a sigh of relief when they leave the room or go back to their elven homes.
I've yet to read a compelling treatment of what it is really like to be an elf. Even Tolkien's elves, for all their deep history, didn't really convince. I guess it's hard to draw a compelling picture of the motivations of creatures that live so long. I got the sense that they thought humans, being very short-lived by their standards, were a bit of an annoyance. Like humans are with the blowflies battering against the windows. The buzzing can be a bit annoying but, you know, they will be dead soon so it's not worth bothering to kill them or sort out their problems.
There is a difference to be drawn here between a depiction that presents them as essentially unknowable with motivations vaster and more important than we mere humans can appreciate and making them a bit ineffable. Most of the depictions fudge the issue - because it's a difficult one I guess - but I'd give them points for trying.
I think Pratchett was more on the money with his depiction of elves as cruel and downright dangerous to any thing that doesn't share their longevity.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
It is fair to say that there is a lot more to writing than I ever thought. It is a craft that gets harder the more you know. In my breezy youth I used to just embark on a story sure that my raw talent would, like a storm surge, overcome the barriers to getting it finished and it actually being any good. Now, much older and wiser I know a huge amount more about how to construct a story, how to handle character, voices, use setting to reinforce the action, change pace to aid exposition and so on, and so on.
As an aside I used to think I would be one of those writers that would be interesting because he was a success enviously young (like Bruce Sterling). But now I’m in danger of being interesting because I’m getting to it so late. But, as others have said before now, the good thing about writing is that you do get better at it as you get older and it’s not the type of physical work that a body simply cannot do at an advanced age.
If I have any regrets about not getting on with it earlier it is that I’m just realising how much there is to know and time is not on my side to learn all that. Though, if you believe John Gardner, (no, not that one) I’m already sunk because I didn’t study literature at University.
Anyhoo, what I have realised, and I know many other budding writers are the same, is that not all stories are created equal in the boiling ferment of the brain. There are some stories, often that have been nourished for a long time, that a writer will shy away from writing until they have the talent to do them justice. I know I have – several of them. And that’s just odd.
It is only partly explained by them being held so close for so long that a writer, like a parent, does not want them to go out in anything but their best clothes. But only partly. There is some deeper appreciation thrumming through stories that demands a writer take notice. And it only gets worse. The more you know, the more scared you feel because you know that the potential for doing a story down is a heinous act. A betrayal almost. Which is really odd. But there it is. Writing increasingly is all about confronting that gap between what you know and what a story demands. When I got going I never thought I would need as much courage, determination and hope as it is becoming apparent I do. This is work, real graft, and it is no good just hitching your belt and waiting. You have to set out and get on with it because every story is a mirror in which you confront yourself and means that what is at stake is your self respect.