So Blogging That, Part IV
12:37 PM The Wife Unit:
Tigger is on my list right now
OMG I was winding a ball of yarn and he broke it
12:37 PM Anthony:
He’s a cat, honey.
You were playing with his toy.
This Novel Deserves Better Than Me
I have some self-imposed rules of writing, mainly to prevent my literary ego from running amok.
Running Amok is a technical term, by the way.
But I digress.
My Sassy and Feminine friend Cassie Hart from New Zealand recently pointed out good writing for me comes from a challenge. So my next target for my love of writing was Dragonsong. The characters and plot speak to me, almost like a call. It will be difficult to pull it together in 100k words, too.
One of my rules of writing, fantasy writing, is that the setting must have a voice. It’s not enough to have a heroic fantasy, character-driven plot. I have very high fantasy standards as a reader. I need to be there. I need to feel it deep in my bones. I need to see it and smell it. It’s visceral or it’s nothing.
I got to chapter three of Dragonsong, and realized the setting isn’t speaking to me. I have a very specific vision for it. I’m not going to hash out the book and then in draft two spruce up the setting, either. The setting is a character, she has a voice or I murder her for one that does. It’s my First Rule of Fantasy Writing.
Unfortunately, nothing repair-wise is nibbling on my little brain, so I’m setting it aside. This novel is better than I am, so I’m going to let it fester.
Thus, I’m living large on The Baby Dancers. That YA setting speaks to me. Yes it does. Maybe she can tell me a few things. Teach me.
That and I’m at the point where I just have to know how the story ends. It’s driving me crazy.
Thank you all who suggested I pick the novel back up because the plot sounded compelling. Because I believe, you’re right.
Goblin Ninjas. On fire.
<giggle>
If you don't see this when I'm writing, I have failed.
Hop, Skip or Jump…
…on over to Adventures in Writing, where I talk about fear and the subversive effect it has on writing.
The Rehabilitated Hack Writer Does E-Books
I read my first non-PDF e-book the other day, end-to-end, on my HTC HD2 phone. I purposely picked a book I need to read again, just to compare the experience. I fired up my Barnes and Noble account, synced it with my phone, and purchased the book on their website.
On my phone, I simply touched the book in my library listing and it downloaded in seconds.
From a shopping perspective, that pretty much was nirvana. If I wanted to, I could have bought the book from my phone directly.
Either way, it was incredibly easy, in fact, that I can see how the instant gratification of having the book you want show up when you want it is addicting.
I’m a sucker for a good hardcover book and I love physical books, the visceral experience in reading. I was very skeptical of e-books, especially reading e-books on a phone.
How was the actual act of reading? I am surprised to tell you it was just fine. Actually, more than fine. The screen resolution on my phone is so good, that I bumped the text size down a notch. The text was easy to read, and changing the pages with a flick of a finger was natural.
Disclaimer: I did not purchase this phone; my company did, because we do Windows Phone development. I’m glad they did, however, because besides reading books I’ve used several of the applications, like mail and instant messaging.
Comparing the experience between paper and e-book? To me it was about the same. I can’t really share the e-book with the rest of my family, so on that account I will still purchase regular books.
What about books for me, though? I’ll always buy an e-book off my Barnes and Noble account if I can. The experience was that good, and the price seems cheaper.
Good experience. Cheaper price. I love interwebs. I love it very much.
New Post in Adventures in Writing
In which I talk about networking (again).
The Things I Come Across in Book Research
A few days ago my oldest son asked The Wife Unit: “Just how long did you know Dad before you married him?”
Snicker.
Book Club for Men
Here’s how men do book clubs.
“Hey, Frank!”
“Hiya, Bob.”
“Gotta book here I want you to read.”
“Thanks, Bud.”
One week later.
“Jason, you need to read this book Bob lent me. It’s totally your thing.”
“Oooooooo.”
One week later.
“Hey Bob, here’s your book back.”
“Hey Jason. What did you think? Was that some characterization or what.”
“Awesome. Like, wow, holy crap that was good.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!”
“I pre-ordered his next one from Amazon. Can’t wait to read it.”
Storytelling
I find myself enjoying the simple freedoms of writing.
Writing four novels was liberating. There are no other words to ascribe to the feeling, perhaps floating in a warm, salty ocean of literary goodness with the sun on my face and a cool drink in my hand, eyes closed. That comes close.
I have a work in progress. Is it work? Is it labor of love in progress?
Maybe it’s fun in progress. Creativity in progress. Wait! I know!
Freedom in progress?
Ick. Too cheesy.
License to lit? The keyboard cha-cha? Expression in progress?
How about storytelling?
Oh, I like that one. It’s a story in progress, yes she is.
I love writing stories. Sometimes, I
File
New
Blank page
Blinking cursor
My reminder in my head: you’re not half as clever as you think you are.
A goofy little smile
Words
Sometimes a story comes out.
It’s so simple it hurts.
Dreaming of You
The daydream is the mind’s natural state. Free of all worry and angst, neither here nor there, the daydreamer is at the apex of the human experience.
Sometimes, we build the Sunday afternoon lazing in a sunbeam where the wind and other sounds become a backdrop to the hum of our existence and the broad sky pales to the horizon of our mind. Here the mind doesn’t wander; it goes where it needs to go along a path we’ve chosen. At the core of the creative soul is this builder. We build these moments, repeatedly, until we’re unable to build any longer.
Then we die.
The daydream isn’t the departure from reality.
It’s the arrival.
How to Write a Love Scene
I have been accused of having mad love scene writing skills.
Of this, I am truly guilty and now impart the Rehabilitated Hack Writer Secret to Writing Hot Love Scenes.
- Pour glass of wine
- Put the Stacey Kent playlist on random
- Press Play
- Start typing
It’s that simple, folks.
No need to thank me, that’s just the kind of guy that I am.
A New Post in Adventures in Writing
Over at Adventures in Writing today, I talk about sleep and, um, writing.
Women and Power
The nebulous and hardly ever footnoted they say the firearm is the great equalizer amongst the sexes. Which is true, but only insofar as a moment of time. A wink in existence. Seconds, actually, and what a wonderful equalizer, albeit brief, it is. Nothing says, “No, I don’t want to be raped tonight,” like multiple 124 grain 9mm jacketed hollow-points traveling 1030 feet per second.
A woman, measured from simpler times and simpler places, always had the power of life, but rarely ever death. No, death, in these simpler times, was the purview of men. Men are stronger, yes, but men held the other key, the most important key, the key unlike any other.
Knowledge.
Knowledge is power, and the Twenty-First Century Woman is a creature of knowledge. At her fingertips is a vast and endless stream of information, most of it biased, but all of it readily accessible. The cynical woman would say that to make sense of it all, one should close off the avenues of distraction.
The optimistic woman, surprisingly, comes to a vastly different conclusion. More, she says. I want more. Always more.
That is true power. The powerful woman is not simply the woman who stops her rapist by filling his thoracic triangle with expanding bullets.
No, the powerful woman fights against the cynical forces that tell her that’s not possible, trying to push her back in time and victimizing her by proxy. It’s not the tool. It was never the tools. It’s about the power.
