Theodora Goss's Blog, page 60

The Literary Vocation

As I've probably mentioned, I'm reading Mario Vargas Llosa's Letters to a Young Novelist. As I read it, I'll excerpt passages that I think are important and comment on them. Yesterday I mentioned how helpful I think it is to consider what other writers have said about writing. And Llosa is one smart, interesting writer.

Here's what he says about the vocation of writing:

"The defining characteristic of the literary vocation may be that those who possess it experience the exercise of their craft as its own best reward, much superior to anything they might gain from the fruit of their labors. That is one thing I am sure of amid my many uncertainties regarding the literary vocation: deep inside, a writer feels that writing is the best thing that ever happened to him, or could ever happen to him, because as far as he is concerned, writing is the best possible way of life, never mind the social, political, or financial rewards of what he might achieve through it.

"Vocation seems to me the inevitable starting point for our talk about what is exciting and troubling you: namely, how to become a writer. It's a mysterious business, of course, veiled in doubt and subjectivity. But that doesn't stop us from trying to explain it rationally, rejecting the religious fervor and pride of the self-important myths the romantics spun around it, according to which the writer was the chosen one of the gods, a being singled out by a transcendent super-human entity to write divine words that, once breathed, would effect the sublimation of the human soul and allow the writer, thanks to his brush with Beauty (capitalized, of course), to achieve immortality.

"Today nobody talks that way about literary or artistic vocation, but even though the definition offered in our times is less grandiose, less steeped in fatefulness, it is still fairly elusive: a predisposition of murky origin that causes certain men and women to dedicate their lives to an activity that one day they feel called, almost obliged, to pursue, because they sense that only in pursuing this vocation – writing stories, for example – will they feel complete, at peace with themselves, able to give the best of themselves without the nagging fear that they are wasting their lives."

Writers are in the business of taking personal experiences and making them universal – we are all Madame Bovary. And of course that's what Llosa is doing here. I have no doubt that this is how he experiences his vocation. I have to admit that it's also an accurate description of how I experience mine. This, for example: "deep inside, a writer feels that writing is the best thing that ever happened to him, or could ever happen to him, because as far as he is concerned, writing is the best possible way of life." This is how I have always felt. I still remember hiding Edith Wharton novels in my desk at the law firm, reading them at lunch. But I knew then, had known for a long time, that I was not a reader but a writer, a producer of such things. That I was reading not simply for pleasure but to learn how it was done. And I can't think of anything I would rather do with my life than write stories.

And I like this definition of the literary vocation: "a predisposition of murky origin that causes certain men and women to dedicate their lives to an activity that one day they feel called, almost obliged, to pursue, because they sense that only in pursuing this vocation – writing stories, for example – will they feel complete, at peace with themselves, able to give the best of themselves without the nagging fear that they are wasting their lives." Again, that's how I experience my own writing. There was a period of about three years when I wasn't working at it, wasn't growing as a writer. There were reasons – life got in the way, supporting a family, raising a child. But I was not at peace with myself. I felt as though I was wasting my life. I was convinced that I had a purpose in life, and I was not fulfilling it. It was one of the darkest period of my life. (I find that the dark periods of my life, the walks through the shadowlands, are all periods like that: when I feel as though I'm not fulfilling some purpose the universe has for me. Which would sound grandiose if it weren't so impossibly painful, to feel as though you're not doing what you ought to be.)

We're not supposed to be highfalutin' about literature nowadays, at least not those of us in what is called genre fiction. (Remind me to explain why fantasy has never been, and will never be, a genre of fiction.) Nick Mamatas discusses this issue in a blog post called Against Craft, which went up yesterday on Booklife. We are supposed to be craftsmen, not artists. Writing to word counts and anthology themes and publication deadlines, writing tie-in novels if we need to. Now, I like the idea of writing as craft, and I believe thinking of it that way expresses something deep about writing: that it can be taught, that there are techniques good writers know. But why can't it be both – craft and art?

I find it refreshing that Llosa still dares, despite his own discomfort with the Romantic glorification of the artist, to think of writing as a call – like the call some people hear to a life of religious contemplation or service. And I would say that there is a spiritual, if not specifically religious, component to writing – it's a call to a particular craft in the service of something larger than ourselves, even though as individual writers we may not know what that is. And perhaps it's better for us not to. It's better for us simply to do our work, learn our craft, create the things we are called to create. Which will hopefully have artistic integrity and validity.

But when I write, I feel a connection to something larger than myself – to something beyond me, that connects me to I don't quite know what. The rest of the universe? The literary tradition? Or perhaps just to a part of myself that I don't usually access. Something, at any rate.

I sometimes wonder if other writers feel that – any of it, or if it's just me. But it can't be just me, because Llosa seems to feel it too. At least, something like it.

What Vonnegut Said

I've been thinking about the idea of deliberate practice, and it seems to me that while the idea is certainly a good one, the way it's described in Geoff Colvin's Talent is Overrated doesn't really help writers. Colvin describes deliberate practice as a way of breaking down and working intensely on the components of a particular activity. He goes specifically into how deliberate practice can work for musicians and chess players. But I don't think writing is similar to either of those activities. Music may be closer than chess, which seems to me rather like a mental sport. Music is an art, but it's an art that involves interpretation rather than original creation. It's more like acting than writing.

Writing is more like composing or being a visual artist. It involves the creation of something new.  Writers are content producers rather than content interpreters.

Colvin does give us one model of a writer who used deliberate practice, but it's Benjamin Franklin, whom I would not hold up as an example of a great creative writer. So does the idea of deliberate practice apply to writing? I think it does, but perhaps in a different way. I'm not sure there is a writerly equivalent to practicing a golf swing, except for the most inexperienced writers, who are actually helped by coming up with a series of first lines, or describing several characters, or just writing dialog for a while. But experienced writers, who are expected to produce genuinely creative work, are going to be way beyond, and not particularly helped by, those sorts of basics. At least not as daily exercises – they certainly wouldn't hurt, but they wouldn't be enough. If we are to take the idea of deliberate practice seriously, it should work for the most experienced writers as well, although perhaps in a different form.

If I were to start to formulate a way to practice deliberately as a writer, I would probably focus on four things:

1. You need to write a lot.

2. You need to write different things.

3. You need to get feedback on your writing.

4. You need to study the work of other writers.

I find that I do this, even though I don't do the sorts of simplistic exercises I described above, the equivalent of golf swings. As least, I write a lot now – there was a time when I didn't write every day, and I can tell you that my writing was different. I had less confidence in it, and I think its quality was less consistent. So now I write at least 1000 words a day, every day. And I write different things: stories, essays, blog posts, facebook and twitter posts (which are an art form of their own, if you want to do them well). Soon, I will be working on a novel.

I think what has helped me the most, recently, has been writing this blog. I get feedback so quickly, whether through hits or comments. I know which of my posts people respond to. That has taught me a lot about writing. But of course I get feedback on everything I write – although I don't have time for a writing group at the moment, I get constant feedback from editors.

And I study the work of other writers. Not just that, I study what they say about writing. I've just finished P.D. James' Talking about Detective Fiction and I've just started Mario Vargas Llosa's Letters to a Young Novelist.

And following an interesting facebook post or tweet (I don't remember which) the other day, I found the following videos of Kurt Vonnegut talking about how to write stories.

Here he is on the shapes of stories:

And here he is giving general short story advice:

I thought I would comment briefly on his suggestions.

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

Well, yes. At a minimum, the reader has to neither put your story down in the middle nor throw it across the room at the end.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

Maybe. Franz Kafka didn't. Neither did Albert Camus.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

I'm not so sure about this one either. I can see experimental fiction about a character who genuinely doesn't want anything. But perhaps Vonnegut is talking about what will make your story appealing to readers, and yes, readers want characters to root for, and in order for readers to root for them, they must actually want something. Even if it's only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things – reveal character or advance the action.

Ideally, every sentence should do both of those things at once, and should also be stylistically interesting.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

This is a bit of a cop out: "as possible." Yes, as possible, meaning you don't want material that is not important at the beginning of your story. But an inexperienced writer may take this advice as license to start in the middle of the action without taking the time to make readers care about the characters first. I know this sort of advice has mislead me in the past.

6. Be a sadist. (By which he means, torture your characters.)

He's exaggerating here. Yes, your characters should go through trials and tribulations. But if you do nothing but torture them, put them through nothing but tribulations, your story won't be much fun to read. I would say rather, be an authorial god. The gods meet out good and ill. That's what you need to do. If there is only ill, what's the point?

7. Write to please just one person. (By which he means – what?)

I'm not sure what he means by this, but I will say that when I write, I often have an imaginary reader in my head. That imaginary reader is a version of me. I write what I would like to read. (It occurs to me that I had a conversation about this once, with a friend who is also a writer. He told me the same thing, and I didn't understand it at the time. I think I do now.)

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible.

Again with the cop out: "as possible." If you're writing a murder mystery, you can't reveal the identity of the murderer until the end. But you do need to make sure the reader doesn't feel as though you're holding information back. The story can't depend on the reader not knowing something the characters know.

I think these are fairly simple rules, the sorts of rules I learned when I first started writing. Perhaps the greatest use of them for a more experienced writer is thinking them through, deciding what works and what doesn't, and why. After all, I think one component of deliberate practice is continually going back to the basics. And that's not a bad thing, for chess players or musicians or writers, even though they might do it differently.

Signs of Spring

I still have a significant amount of work to do this month, but I find myself restless in the way I always do when spring comes and the school year ends.

It's time to clean things up, start things anew. And the first thing I need to work on is myself.

If you've been reading this blog, you know I haven't been taking very good care of myself. I've had so much to do, and been so stressed, that I haven't been eating well or getting the rest and exercise I need. But those things are necessary for me. If I don't do them, I can't keep up with the intense schedule I'm going to have not only for the rest of the month but also this summer. (Because – well, I'll tell you at the end of this post.)

I find that writers are not very healthy in general. Have you noticed? There are reasons for that. Writing involves sitting in front of a computer for long hours, and of course that's not a particularly healthy activity. But also, writing is a stressful profession. If you're a professional writer – and I mean a writer who makes a significant portion of your income from writing, whatever significant means to you (and I will be in that category this year), you have deadlines to meet, obligations of various sorts. And I don't know about you, but when I can't meet my obligations, when I get behind, I start feeling guilty. There are people I'm not getting back to, projects I'm not completing. And writing isn't the sort of profession where you go home at the end of the day, with your work done. No, your work is never done. You could always do more, do better. I love that about writing, but you see the problem, don't you? Sedentary, intense, stressful. That's writing.

So I want to get back to a place where I feel healthy again, which for me means feeling as though my body is strong and flexible, with minimal aches and pains (there are old dance injuries that will never go away). And as though my environment is clean and restful, as though everything is in its proper place and gives me pleasure.

Step one, I've already started on. An hour before I go to sleep, I've started doing a sort of routine. I put on music, light a candle, and go through my moves: pilades, yoga, dance moves of various sorts. Trying to get back that flexibility and strength. And then at the end, I turn off the music to sit and meditate. It's the most relaxing thing I've done in months.

I've found that when you want to do something new, it's a good idea to make the intention material in some way. So today I went to Barnes and Noble, because there's no independent bookstore close to me, and bought another book on yoga. More for inspiration than anything else, but it has some good moves and sequences in it. And the pictures are pretty.

(Yes, I can still do this pose. I haven't lost that much flexibility!)

And then I went to Whole Foods, really because we needed milk but also because I wanted to pick up some healthy food: whole grains, lean meats, low-fat dairy, fruit (blueberries!). Which is a bit silly, because that's what I eat anyway, although I've been eating more sweets than I should, using sugar as a substitute for sleep, which is not a good idea.

But woman does not live by healthy food alone, so I also bought some sprouted-grain spelt brownies. (Don't laugh. They are, honest to goodness, the most decadent brownies I've ever tasted.)

So step one is becoming healthy again – or healthier than I am now.

Step two is going through my stuff. I've already started doing that, going through my stuff and deciding what to give away. Wondering how in the world I accumulate so much when I so rarely shop. But this summer in particular I will be going through a series of transitions in my life – finishing the PhD is only one of them – and I want to have only what is necessary or beautiful around me. So I'm going through the closet, the shelves, everything systematically.

Part of that process is making my environment more beautiful. At Whole Foods, I considered buying a bunch of peonies, but they already looked tired and drooping. So instead, when I came home I cut some of the purple flowers that are growing all over one side of the yard (I believe they are actually some sort of weed), and also some narcissus Thalia that were past their prime. I put them into the stoneware sugar pot, the one I bought with no lid.

I think they look rather nice, actually. As nice as peonies from the store would have. So step two is really cleaning and clearing out, and I'm working on it.

I wanted to include one more picture, but I don't know whether it fits under step one or two. I suppose step one, because it fits under taking care of myself. But it's been ages since I've had my hair cut. It's starting to look ridiculously Lady of Shalottish.

I'll have to find time for that. Maybe next week, before Wiscon, so when you see me there I won't look quite so ragged.  I won't want anyone thinking that we writers are savages, you know?

(Oh, and the intense schedule? I'm going to write a novel. More on this in a future post, which will be titled something like Summer Novel Challenge.  Stay tuned!)

Sigh No More

I found the strangest thing.

I had just deleted the comments that WordPress had identified as spam and was glancing through a list of my blog posts for the last few weeks when I realized there was one I had started and saved as a draft, but never completed. It didn't have much in it. Just a video of a live performance of "Sign No More" by Mumford & Sons:

And some of the lyrics:

Love it will not betray you

Dismay or enslave you, it will set you free

Be more like the man you were made to be

There is a design, an alignment, a cry

Of my heart to see,

The beauty of love as it was made to be

And now I wonder what I was going to write about these. Obviously I was going to turn them into a blog post, and then I didn't. What thought process was I going through at the time? It was in April, the cruelest month (no violets, just dead land). And there were so many things going on in my life and in my head. I remember days when I wanted to hide under the covers because I felt so overwhelmed. There was so much work to do, and it seemed as though spring would never come, warmth and light would never come again.

But this is an optimistic song, isn't it? In some ways. I think I focused on it partly because I've always loved the original, from Much Ado About Nothing, which is one of my touchstones for how to tell a great love story. Between Benedick and Beatrice, I mean. Someday I want to write a pair of lovers with that sort of physical and intellectual chemistry. Here is the original, by that Shakespeare guy:

Mumford & Sons has turned it into quite a different song, of course. No longer about the fickleness of men, which was a popular Renaissance theme, but about love as a process of self-discovery. Which is a much more modern way of looking at it.

Writing News

Two very nice things happened today.

The first was that I received my copy of Asimov's Science Fiction with my story "Pug" in it. Here's what it looks like:

My name is on the cover! Did you notice? (I think the last time I had my name on the cover of a magazine was way back when "The Rose in Twelve Petals" appeared in Realms of Fantasy. That was my first publication, so I almost feel as though I've come full circle. I'm back in a place of infinite possibilities.)

There's something I want to tell you about "Pug." Asimov's calls it a "gentle SF story about a group of Victorian girls." And it is that (although slightly before the Victorian era – Georgian, to be precise), but it's also more than that. "Pug" was written to be a sort of puzzle, and I want to know if anyone will figure it out.

If you want to try, I'm going to give you two clues.

The first clue is the epigraph: "Pug is flat, like most characters in fiction. He is once represented as straying into a rosebed in a cardboard kind of way, but that is all . . ." E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel

The second clue is the name of the main character: Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park.

If you think you know what the story is about, send me an email (tgoss@bu.edu) telling me what you think. And if you're right, I'll send you a signed copy of In the Forest of Forgetting.

The second very nice thing that happened today is that I learned my story "The Mad Scientist's Daughter" is one of the five finalists for a Locus Award in the novelette category. Here are all the novelette finalists:

"The Fool Jobs," Joe Abercrombie (Swords & Dark Magic)

"The Truth Is a Cave in the Black Mountains," Neil Gaiman (Stories)

"The Mad Scientist's Daughter," Theodora Goss (Strange Horizons 1/18-1/25/10)

"Plus or Minus," James Patrick Kelly (Asimov's 12/10)

"Marya and the Pirate," Geoffrey A. Landis (Asimov's 1/10)

And here are the Locus Award finalists in all categories.

Do you know why I'm especially pleased? Jim Kelly and Geoff Landis were instructors of mine at the Clarion Writing Workshop, back in 2001! It's rather nice to be a finalist for an award along with your actual Clarion instructors. (Jim and Geoff, you have only yourselves to blame. You're the ones who taught me all that stuff!)

So all in all, it's been a very good day, even though I'm still getting over this cold. But I'll take a cold for this sort of good news!

On Being Impatient

Yesterday afternoon, I suddenly started to get sick. Aching throat, runny nose, that sort of thing. Just a standard virus, but I was supposed to turn in a revised manuscript that day, and suddenly I couldn't think straight. I had completed most of the revisions earlier, but I needed to go over the manuscript one more time, make sure everything was right. Because, in case you haven't figured it out already, I'm a perfectionist. I'm not the sort of writer who can send out a manuscript, not caring whether the commas are in the right places. I don't believe in getting it done and getting it out. I want it to be as perfect as it can possibly be.

So I emailed to ask for an extra day.

This morning I woke up and got to work. I didn't feel well enough to change, so there I was in a pair of gray pajamas, sitting on the bed, reading over the manuscript while sucking on Ricolas and blowing my nose at regular intervals. And then sitting at my desk and typing in corrections, which required more Ricolas, more tissues. I finished and sent off the revised version around one in the afternoon. By then the cold had started to get better. I finally showered, dressed in jeans, a navy blue t-shirt and cardigan, and thought, what now? I was so tired that I couldn't start another project, not right away. So instead, I got in the car and ran two errands. One was to test Coco Mademoiselle, because I had decided that I might like it as an alternative to Chanel No. 5, which is really for evenings when I go to the theater. (Which I have not done lately. Anyone who wants to take me to the theater, feel free to volunteer.) And because ever since I read her biography, I've been fascinated by everything Coco Chanel. This, by the way, is a sign I saw last week while walking up Commonwealth Avenue:

That was a frivolous enough errand for a day on which I was sick and had already put in a morning's work. The second errand was to go to Barnes and Noble, just to walk around. I find that I learn a lot from just walking around in bookstores, both the independents and the large chains. It was nice to see books by friends of mine. And it gave me ideas too – for my own projects.

I know, that doesn't sound like a very exciting day. And I have to admit that sometimes I get impatient. I feel as though I'm in the process of creating the life I want. But on days when I am sick, or lonely, or feel as though there's no hand in the dark, nothing to hold on to, I wonder, when will it happen, when will I make it happen? And then I work on it some more. But some days, it's difficult not to get despondent.

I'll do it – I'll change my life in the way I want to – because I'm persistent, and smart, and usually patient. But there are days when I get tired, and then I get impatient, and then I feel like doing something impulsive, getting on a plane and flying somewhere. It's silly, I know. But there it is.

What I do instead is think about the life I want: the cottage I can write in, the friends I want around me and to collaborate with. The work I love doing. I know it's possible, that my dreams are both achievable and realistic. It's just that I get impatient and want it now, whereas I know there's a timeline, and that I need to complete a series of tasks to get there. I'll get through them. I just have to fight the good fight, one task, one deadline at a time.

After all, in this world all things change. And after darkness comes the light, just as after winter comes spring.

Give It Away

Oh no. What happened? Three hours ago, I was feeling fine. And now I'm sitting here shivering, with my throat aching, my nose running. Sick with whatever was going around the family this weekend. I thought I had avoided it, but I guess I was wrong. So I'm writing this post now, before I feel any worse. Hopefully, it will make sense.

Several days ago I wrote a post on the need to market one's work, and perhaps oneself as a writer. And I got some very interesting responses. One thing my post did not address was how one actually does it. How does one market effectively, without becoming boring or obnoxious? And I thought, there is a formula:

1. Do cool stuff.

2. Give it away.

Now, an important part of being a writer is doing cool stuff and then selling it. So the question is, what to give away? But this formula does make clear, I think, that marketing is part of being a writer, an extension of it, not something additional to it. You don't write and then do something completely different. You just do what you already do – in a way that is more accessible. Usually free.

Let me give you an example from one of my favorite writers, Terri Windling.

I don't know when Terri created The Journal of Mythic Arts. I do know that it was a labor of love. She didn't do it to market herself as a writer. (I haven't asked her, but that's my guess.) It was a gift to the world of readers – filled with articles, reviews, stories, poetry, and the most beautiful art. All free. But it did showcase Terri's talents and expertise. When I was growing up, Terri was fantasy, for me and for many other fantasy readers – and aspiring fantasy writers. They knew who she was, and if they didn't, there was something wrong with them. Now that she's no longer working on The Journal of Mythic Arts, she has what I think is an absolutely beautiful blog, The Drawing Board. I find so many things there that take me away to Devon, which is evidently synonymous with Fairyland. And that teach and inspire me. I go there to live, for at least a few minutes a day, in Terri's world.

I don't think that's meant to be effective marketing, and if it were just meant to be that, I'm not sure it would work. I'm not sure it would have the absolute authenticity it does.  Rather, it's an extension of who Terri genuinely is.  But it does work as marketing, doesn't it? If I see Terri's name on a project, I'm going to buy it, because I want to participate in the worlds she creates, in her imagination.

I think that you market to people in the same way that you do anything else, as a writer. You entertain, inform, inspire. Show people things they want to see, tell them things they want to hear about, just as you would in a story. But do it for free. And if they like what they can get for free, they will hopefully want to purchase what they can't.

So marketing is not just about telling people what you've created in the hope that they will buy it. It also involves creating something, whether that's a reading, a video, whatever. That's what I think, at least. And in a way, I think that makes marketing more palatable for writers, who have a difficult time simply talking about what they're doing, or asking people to purchase their work, or vote for them at awards time.

Be creative, and give stuff away.

If you can do those two things, you can market your work and yourself. Without having anything to be ashamed about.

I'll end with three examples of what I consider effective, very creative marketing. The first is Catherynne Valente's trailer for her novel Deathless:

The second is Seanan McGuire's Albums page, where I can read the lyrics to many of her songs and listen to some of them as well. This is the page that made me want to buy her CD Wicked Girls, which I now play over and over and over again. It's one of my favorites.

The third is Rima Staine's blog The Hermitage, which makes me want to buy her art. And also move to Fairyland. I mean Devon.

I hope you'll love these examples as much as I do and support these artists. And spread the word about them. There, how's that for marketing?

Now, someone bring me some Ricola . . .

Reading Poems

All right, I did it. I used Audacity to make a bunch of audio files. If you look at my Poems page now, this is what you'll see, right at the top of the page:

"Ravens" text audio

"Fairy Tale" text

"An Education" audio

"Advice to a Daughter" audio

"The Marshes" audio

"Guenivere in Prison" audio

"The Goblins" audio

"The Witch" text

"Goblin Song" audio

"The Changeling" text audio

"The Bear's Daughter" text audio

"What Her Mother Said" text audio

"The Ophelia Cantos" text audio

"Beauty to the Beast" audio

I'm still learning this process, and there are places on these files where I can hear things I don't want to: me breathing, for instance. (Don't get me wrong, breathing is good. I just don't want to hear it in the middle of a poem.) And there are places where I could be more expressive, places where I could be – oh, all sorts of things. But I'm learning, and each time I do something like this, I'll learn more about the technology, about how to use my voice.

So, feel free to comment and critique my efforts here. But I hope you enjoy having poems to listen to. And there will certainly be more to come.

Mother's Day

Long ago, I decided to celebrate holidays however I wanted. Otherwise, what was the point? It wouldn't be much of a holiday if I spent it trying to live up to some set of societal expectations, would it?

So this was how I spent Mother's Day.

In the morning, I asked for perfect quiet so I could work on the Secret Project, which is due on Monday. I still can't talk about the Secret Project. There is only one person, other than the publisher, who knows about it and who actually partially inspired it. But I did recently notice something that the publisher posted, and that provides the only hint I'm going to give you now. If you're interested, click here.

Then we had lunch, with everything I had requested: corn and pepper soup, roast beef sandwiches, chocolate mousse cake. Ophelia had picked out a bunch of tulips, and I put them into a white stoneware sugar bowl I had bought long ago. It had been missing its lid, but I thought it would be perfect for flowers. And so it is.

She has good taste in tulips, doesn't she? Going for the dusky orange.

Then, I went to pick out my present. That's another thing I decided long ago, that I was going to buy my own presents. That way, I would be sure of getting what I wanted. And what I wanted this time was a digital camera, because mine is so old. So I went to Best Buy, and now I have a brand new Olympus that can even take short videos. With all of its accessories, it was about $150, but I think of that as a business expense. After all, I'm going to Wiscon in two weeks. I'm going to need a camera.

Later today, I have more work to do on the Secret Project. I'm going to tell you about it soon, I promise. Sometimes, as I work on it, I wonder what its partial inspirer will think. I'll know eventually, I suppose.

And even later today, when the house is quiet, I'm going to record some of the poems I have online. I've been meaning to do that for a while, and I should have some time tonight. It won't take long.

I'll post those when they're done, and you'll be able to hear me read some poetry.

That was what my Mother's Day looked like. Tomorrow, more work to meet my deadline. And then I have to finish my teaching work for the semester. And then I have another deadline to meet, for the last dissertation chapter. It's a lot, I know, and it may sound as though I didn't have a Mother's Day, exactly. But you see, this is what I want to do. If I had free time, time to spend exactly as I wanted, I would think up new projects to work on. That's the way I am.  Sometimes I think I get bored more easily than other people, or that I wasn't made for ordinary, everyday life. What is this, I ask myself – this relentless drive to create, to become, to live intensely? Although if you saw me this morning, sitting for hours in front of the computer, just typing, you wouldn't think I was living intensely. Unless you could see into my mind, see that at every moment I was creating a story, living in my characters. Thinking, feeling. Sitting perfectly still, only my fingers moving, but completely alive.

That was my Mother's Day. May every day be as productive.

Deliberate Practice

Last week, I read a book called Talent is Overrated: What Really Separates World-Class Performers from Everybody Else by Geoff Colvin.

About a year ago, I don't think I would have told you that. It would have implied that I wanted to be a world-class performer, which would have seemed terribly ambitious. And in my family, while people are in fact terribly ambitious, they never, ever talk about it. (I mean, my father is an MD/PhD and my mother is an MD/JD. And their children take after them in various ways.) When I look back at it now, I realize that I was raised according to the oddest standards, the standards of a nineteenth-century aristocratic European family. There were things one simply did not talk about. Money and ambition, for instance, although it was always assumed that one would have money (not that we did), and that one would accomplish at the highest level (well, we did that, I think). I grew up with the distinct impression that if your possessions were too new, you came from new money, and there was something shameful in that. That a woman should never call a man first, or accept money or any gift of significant value (unless they were actually engaged). I know, it sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? I also know how to ride horses and crochet lace. Seriously.

Where was I? So I was reading Talent is Overrated, which is a very interesting book about how anyone can develop world-class talent if he or she puts in the necessary work. The necessary work turns out to be a lot, about ten year's worth of what the author calls deliberate practice. I'm still thinking through the book, but here is what I've gotten out of it so far, at least for myself as it applies to my writing. Here are the steps you need to take, to achieve world-class talent.

1. Know where you want to go.

Where I want to go is a writing career, of course. By which I mean a lot of things that I've written about before, so I won't try to explain them all here. Let's go through these steps first.

2. Decide what skills you need to get there.

The skills I need are writing skills. I need to be able to write a terrific story, poem, essay, novel. I think I probably also need the skills to market my writing effectively. I need to be able to do readings, create ebooks and podcasts, that sort of thing.

3. Practice those skills deliberately.

There are several ways to accomplish this step. First, you need to practice a lot, but that by itself is not enough. You need to practice in a targeted and effective way, focusing on specific skills that will go into creating the work. You need to find good teachers – who for my purpose can be teachers I interact with or writers who have long been dead, but whose writing I can still learn from. You also need to seek out and receive feedback on your progress, so you know what you're doing well and what you need to keep working on. And you need to modify your practice to reflect your growth.

This is a lot, and I need to write about it more, separately.

4. Develop a deep knowledge of your field.

The book says that the best performers are also the most knowledgeable about the field in which they excel. A chess master will understand chess in a way that a lesser player does not. The same goes for a world-class musician. I think you see this among writers. I'm reading a book by P.D. James on the history of the detective story, and it's clear that she understands her field inside and out. Stephen King seems to have a deep knowledge of supernatural horror as a literary genre.

What is my field? Writing – so I need a deep knowledge of the literary tradition and of writing more specifically.

I have to think further about these four injunctions, because they make me think differently about what I do. For example, do I actually engage in deliberate practice? I need to think about that one. But I'm hoping to write about it later in the week. When I'm a little less tired!