Jennifer R. Hubbard's Blog, page 90
September 15, 2011
Starting
I see writers asking this question from time to time, most recently tracy_d74: How do you choose your next project, especially if you have more than one nipping at your ankles?
I've seen some writers use a method that amazes me: posting the options online and asking people to vote for the project they'd most like to see. Were I to do that, my stubborn Muse would just laugh and ignore the poll results, whatever they were.
I'm sure there must be sensible authors out there who use rational thought processes to choose their next project. I know there are people writing series who don't even have to worry about this decision (at least, until the series is over). But for me, the decision is not even up to me--or at least it feels that way. I don't choose the project as much as it chooses me.
I get story ideas all the time. Sometimes they grip me quite strongly. I'll write a sentence, or a paragraph, or a page, or ten pages. And then the idea dies. I don't know where to take it next, or I just don't care where it goes. Not enough "there" there. The downside: this happens a lot. The upside: I haven't invested a whole lot of time before I realize the idea won't work. Sometimes an idea goes from "Brilliant!" to "Yawn" in less than an hour.
Short stories don't require nearly as much of a commitment. I can finish a first draft in a matter of hours, and polish it in days or weeks. But novels take months or years. What I'm looking for in a novel idea is an interesting plot, a great voice, and characters that I can stand living with for a couple of years. Most of all, I need a certain energy to seize me--and to have staying power. The story must fascinate me through draft after draft. I must care about the topic passionately; I'll even say it should hurt a little, too. (For me and my stories, that is. I imagine that if you're writing humor, it doesn't have to hurt!)
Starting a new project is like finding a vein of gold, but not being sure how deep or far it goes. At some point, often around page 10 of a draft, I will have a sense of whether this vein is a mother lode, or whether it dies out.
I don't know how to manufacture that energy, the drive that tells me this idea will be my next novel. But I know it when I feel it.
I've seen some writers use a method that amazes me: posting the options online and asking people to vote for the project they'd most like to see. Were I to do that, my stubborn Muse would just laugh and ignore the poll results, whatever they were.
I'm sure there must be sensible authors out there who use rational thought processes to choose their next project. I know there are people writing series who don't even have to worry about this decision (at least, until the series is over). But for me, the decision is not even up to me--or at least it feels that way. I don't choose the project as much as it chooses me.
I get story ideas all the time. Sometimes they grip me quite strongly. I'll write a sentence, or a paragraph, or a page, or ten pages. And then the idea dies. I don't know where to take it next, or I just don't care where it goes. Not enough "there" there. The downside: this happens a lot. The upside: I haven't invested a whole lot of time before I realize the idea won't work. Sometimes an idea goes from "Brilliant!" to "Yawn" in less than an hour.
Short stories don't require nearly as much of a commitment. I can finish a first draft in a matter of hours, and polish it in days or weeks. But novels take months or years. What I'm looking for in a novel idea is an interesting plot, a great voice, and characters that I can stand living with for a couple of years. Most of all, I need a certain energy to seize me--and to have staying power. The story must fascinate me through draft after draft. I must care about the topic passionately; I'll even say it should hurt a little, too. (For me and my stories, that is. I imagine that if you're writing humor, it doesn't have to hurt!)
Starting a new project is like finding a vein of gold, but not being sure how deep or far it goes. At some point, often around page 10 of a draft, I will have a sense of whether this vein is a mother lode, or whether it dies out.
I don't know how to manufacture that energy, the drive that tells me this idea will be my next novel. But I know it when I feel it.
September 14, 2011
It's okay to slow down
I've just been on the road for the second time in less than a month, and so once again I am out of touch with the online world. There are hurricane-relief efforts going on, and Book Blogger Appreciation Week, and an effort to support the presence of GLBT characters and story lines in YA, and I don't even have it in me to code a link to any of it, even though I'm in favor of all of these causes.
I've just come through a period of time where I have done a lot. Some days, it feels as if I'm busy every single second. And lately, I've been giving myself permission to do less, and to do more of what I enjoy and less of what just feels like a chore. And to acknowledge that I can't do every single thing that I would like to do. And to accept that when I've been away, catching up is not an instant process.
Writers are famous for having this kind of lifestyle, the juggling-a-hundred-things, busy-all-the-time lifestyle. I believe that is because 1) writing generally pays poorly, and most writers have to have another job to pay the bills; and 2) writers are often interested in many, many things, and we're always trying to experience this and learn more about that and try this and do that.
It's an incredibly rich life. Just one that requires a day off now and then.
I've just come through a period of time where I have done a lot. Some days, it feels as if I'm busy every single second. And lately, I've been giving myself permission to do less, and to do more of what I enjoy and less of what just feels like a chore. And to acknowledge that I can't do every single thing that I would like to do. And to accept that when I've been away, catching up is not an instant process.
Writers are famous for having this kind of lifestyle, the juggling-a-hundred-things, busy-all-the-time lifestyle. I believe that is because 1) writing generally pays poorly, and most writers have to have another job to pay the bills; and 2) writers are often interested in many, many things, and we're always trying to experience this and learn more about that and try this and do that.
It's an incredibly rich life. Just one that requires a day off now and then.
September 11, 2011
Rest
Finishing a project can inspire many feelings: relief, joy, satisfaction, accomplishment. Nervousness about how it will be received, or pride in reaching a goal.
It can also bring about an "empty-nest" feeling, a sense of being lost. When characters occupy one's head for weeks or months or years, it can be startling when, instead of cavorting across the mind's stage, they sit in the wings picking at their fingernails. "Our story has been told," they tell the author. "We're resting now. Go away."
That cup must be emptied in order to be refilled, to make room for a new story. One can fear that temporary emptiness, or embrace it. It's like a rest in music, or white space on a page: blankness with a purpose.
It can also bring about an "empty-nest" feeling, a sense of being lost. When characters occupy one's head for weeks or months or years, it can be startling when, instead of cavorting across the mind's stage, they sit in the wings picking at their fingernails. "Our story has been told," they tell the author. "We're resting now. Go away."
That cup must be emptied in order to be refilled, to make room for a new story. One can fear that temporary emptiness, or embrace it. It's like a rest in music, or white space on a page: blankness with a purpose.
September 9, 2011
Expectations
I was reading some online reviews and discussion of a group of books by a certain author. (I'd read and liked one of this author's books, and was trying to decide which one to read next.) An ongoing theme in the discussion gave me pause. Essentially, this person's readers loved the writer's early work, but seemed to feel that success had spoiled the later work. The author's new, more privileged position in life (which had occurred, ironically, as the result of the success of the early books) was now harder for the readers to relate to.
It's a common problem for artists whose work succeeds in a big way. If your early work is about living with roaches and collapsing ceilings and scraping together quarters to buy some ravioli at the corner grocery, plenty of people can relate. But if you become so popular that your art not only supports you but enables you to upgrade your lifestyle, is your audience still going to care when your new problems are which butler to hire and how much caviar to spread on your morning toast?
We should all have such problems, I can just hear the writers in my audience saying. Success, fame and fortune? Bring it on!
I was already thinking about issues of art and fame because I recently rewatched the movie Stardust Memories, which is about all the glop that accumulates around a successful artist. Stardust Memories makes fame look like a constant hassle, and the main character's art (film, in this case) is getting buried beneath a mountain of corporate baloney, criticism (especially from those who want to pigeonhole him, who want his new films to be just like his previous films), and personal problems. And somehow Stardust Memories manages to carry this off without making the main character repellent. Every time he slides into self-indulgence, one of the other characters delivers a snappy, often funny line that lifts the scene. Sometimes the main character even accomplishes this himself, as when he imagines a space alien telling him, in the voice of all his critics, that if he really wants to make a difference in the world, he should stop with all the gloomy pondering about mortality and "'Tell funnier jokes.'"
I doubt I'll ever have the problem of overwhelming fame to deal with myself, but all artists eventually have to deal with the expectations of their audiences, with the ongoing viability of their work in the marketplace. They have to decide whether they want to continue to tell the same kind of story that brought them attention initially, or to take the risk of trying new genres and subject matters and attitudes. Artists also change: the person who writes the fifth book is not the same as the person who wrote the first book.
In Stardust Memories, the redeeming spark in the center of all the pressure and nonsense is the art itself, the very human attempt to capture the fleeting wonder that is at the center of the crazy miracle we call life. Sometimes it's struggle and setback, but then there are those moments: a wet kiss of forgiveness, or a perfect Sunday morning with a loved one.
It's a common problem for artists whose work succeeds in a big way. If your early work is about living with roaches and collapsing ceilings and scraping together quarters to buy some ravioli at the corner grocery, plenty of people can relate. But if you become so popular that your art not only supports you but enables you to upgrade your lifestyle, is your audience still going to care when your new problems are which butler to hire and how much caviar to spread on your morning toast?
We should all have such problems, I can just hear the writers in my audience saying. Success, fame and fortune? Bring it on!
I was already thinking about issues of art and fame because I recently rewatched the movie Stardust Memories, which is about all the glop that accumulates around a successful artist. Stardust Memories makes fame look like a constant hassle, and the main character's art (film, in this case) is getting buried beneath a mountain of corporate baloney, criticism (especially from those who want to pigeonhole him, who want his new films to be just like his previous films), and personal problems. And somehow Stardust Memories manages to carry this off without making the main character repellent. Every time he slides into self-indulgence, one of the other characters delivers a snappy, often funny line that lifts the scene. Sometimes the main character even accomplishes this himself, as when he imagines a space alien telling him, in the voice of all his critics, that if he really wants to make a difference in the world, he should stop with all the gloomy pondering about mortality and "'Tell funnier jokes.'"
I doubt I'll ever have the problem of overwhelming fame to deal with myself, but all artists eventually have to deal with the expectations of their audiences, with the ongoing viability of their work in the marketplace. They have to decide whether they want to continue to tell the same kind of story that brought them attention initially, or to take the risk of trying new genres and subject matters and attitudes. Artists also change: the person who writes the fifth book is not the same as the person who wrote the first book.
In Stardust Memories, the redeeming spark in the center of all the pressure and nonsense is the art itself, the very human attempt to capture the fleeting wonder that is at the center of the crazy miracle we call life. Sometimes it's struggle and setback, but then there are those moments: a wet kiss of forgiveness, or a perfect Sunday morning with a loved one.
September 7, 2011
Letting go
For the past couple of weeks, I've been thinking about the concept of "letting go." It can mean many things, and different things at different times, but I've found it immensely useful in my writing life (as well as the other parts of my life). Some things it can mean:
Saying no to taking on another task.
Deciding not to attend a conference I've attended in the past.
Sitting and reading a book instead of forcing myself through another chore.
Postponing some of my tasks, or switching them from daily to every other day.
Accepting that the least important things in my life will be done imperfectly so that I can spend more time on the things that matter most.
Scheduling travel at a sane hour instead of arranging a trip that requires getting up at 4 AM.
Being willing to forgo of something I want if the cost (and not just the monetary cost) is too high.
Stopping a flurry of self-questioning about whether the book I'm writing now is as good as the previous one, or better, or worse, or whether readers will like it as much as my earlier books, or more, or less ...
Remembering to laugh.
Writing takes a lot of time and energy, and that time and energy have to come from somewhere. We don't always have to be adding to our lists. Sometimes we can delete items without even doing them. It's okay.
Saying no to taking on another task.
Deciding not to attend a conference I've attended in the past.
Sitting and reading a book instead of forcing myself through another chore.
Postponing some of my tasks, or switching them from daily to every other day.
Accepting that the least important things in my life will be done imperfectly so that I can spend more time on the things that matter most.
Scheduling travel at a sane hour instead of arranging a trip that requires getting up at 4 AM.
Being willing to forgo of something I want if the cost (and not just the monetary cost) is too high.
Stopping a flurry of self-questioning about whether the book I'm writing now is as good as the previous one, or better, or worse, or whether readers will like it as much as my earlier books, or more, or less ...
Remembering to laugh.
Writing takes a lot of time and energy, and that time and energy have to come from somewhere. We don't always have to be adding to our lists. Sometimes we can delete items without even doing them. It's okay.
September 5, 2011
Marching boldly and erratically into the future
From an actual mailer sent to me this week:
"Beginning in July, we will be activating a new computer system in our physician offices ... During this implementation period, it is possible that you may receive more than one billing statement for physician services ... We are very excited about the new possibilities our integrated system will offer and expect that these changes will enhance your ... experience."
Yeah, I'd be excited too, if I had the chance of getting paid twice for the same service. And I can't wait for the "enhancement" of calling their automated phone system to unravel any double-billing errors!
Today's writing lesson: think about the effect of placing one idea near another idea, and whether that will produce any unintended laughs or groans from your reader ...
"Beginning in July, we will be activating a new computer system in our physician offices ... During this implementation period, it is possible that you may receive more than one billing statement for physician services ... We are very excited about the new possibilities our integrated system will offer and expect that these changes will enhance your ... experience."
Yeah, I'd be excited too, if I had the chance of getting paid twice for the same service. And I can't wait for the "enhancement" of calling their automated phone system to unravel any double-billing errors!
Today's writing lesson: think about the effect of placing one idea near another idea, and whether that will produce any unintended laughs or groans from your reader ...
September 4, 2011
Leading questions
One thing writers often encounter when they start receiving critique is the "more, please" comment. If the piece is discussed in a large workshop, the writer can come away with 20 different requests to explain how the MC's characters met, what color the MC's eyes are, why she bites her nails, how long she's been working at her job, and so on, and so on.
A beginning writer is often tempted to answer every question, and to include all the answers in the story. That can lead to a story boggeed down in irrelevant details. I've found that in reality, some of the answers belong in the story; some of the answers belong in the writer's head but not on the page; some of the answers don't matter at all; and some can lead to a wonderful new place, can break open a scene.
I don't like to dismiss any question out of hand, but at least give it a "What if?" chance. I ask myself: Do I know the answer to this question? If so, does it matter to the story? Is it interesting? Does it relate to the plot or the theme? If I don't know the answer--does it matter? Does it lead me somewhere important?
A beginning writer is often tempted to answer every question, and to include all the answers in the story. That can lead to a story boggeed down in irrelevant details. I've found that in reality, some of the answers belong in the story; some of the answers belong in the writer's head but not on the page; some of the answers don't matter at all; and some can lead to a wonderful new place, can break open a scene.
I don't like to dismiss any question out of hand, but at least give it a "What if?" chance. I ask myself: Do I know the answer to this question? If so, does it matter to the story? Is it interesting? Does it relate to the plot or the theme? If I don't know the answer--does it matter? Does it lead me somewhere important?
September 2, 2011
Recovering from an "oops!" moment
I don't remember the exact wording of the question, because it was at least a year ago that I heard it. But it came up once when I was on a writers' panel, and obviously it has stuck with me.
The question was along the lines of, "If you've made a mistake with an editor, can you ever approach her again, or are you blacklisted?"
I can't speak for editors or agents or even for all writers. I can't really speak for anyone but myself. However, this was my answer, and I suspect (and hope) that it applies widely: It depends on what you mean by "mistake," but I think blacklisting is rare.
There are small mistakes, and then there are really huge errors in judgment. Most of our mistakes fall into the first category. Did you misspell her name? Send the wrong version of a manuscript? Did you say, with rookie hubris, that your manuscript was like [fill in latest bestseller title] only better? Write your query in hot pink letters because you thought it would be eye-catching? Ask her, at your very first writers' conference, if she would take your 1000-page manuscript home with her? Don't get me wrong: these are behaviors to avoid if you can. But if you've done anything like this, either through a brain freeze or novice enthusiasm, I frankly doubt anyone will remember. It may make you cringe now, but the editor has seen so many queries since yours that the ones she passed on have probably melted together in her mind. Nobody's perfect, and I think most people have the compassion to see innocent mistakes as just that. The important thing is not whether you've ever stumbled, but whether you've learned. The point is: what does your manuscript look like now? How does your latest query sound? Are you cultivating a professional attitude now?
Of course, there are behaviors that could put off an editor permanently--stalkerish behavior, for example, like calling an editor at home or bombarding her with email or phone calls, or responding with extreme anger to a rejection. But I think those are much, much rarer than the innocent flubs we all make at one time or another. I would hope we can extend some understanding to one another, and not sweat the small stuff.
The question was along the lines of, "If you've made a mistake with an editor, can you ever approach her again, or are you blacklisted?"
I can't speak for editors or agents or even for all writers. I can't really speak for anyone but myself. However, this was my answer, and I suspect (and hope) that it applies widely: It depends on what you mean by "mistake," but I think blacklisting is rare.
There are small mistakes, and then there are really huge errors in judgment. Most of our mistakes fall into the first category. Did you misspell her name? Send the wrong version of a manuscript? Did you say, with rookie hubris, that your manuscript was like [fill in latest bestseller title] only better? Write your query in hot pink letters because you thought it would be eye-catching? Ask her, at your very first writers' conference, if she would take your 1000-page manuscript home with her? Don't get me wrong: these are behaviors to avoid if you can. But if you've done anything like this, either through a brain freeze or novice enthusiasm, I frankly doubt anyone will remember. It may make you cringe now, but the editor has seen so many queries since yours that the ones she passed on have probably melted together in her mind. Nobody's perfect, and I think most people have the compassion to see innocent mistakes as just that. The important thing is not whether you've ever stumbled, but whether you've learned. The point is: what does your manuscript look like now? How does your latest query sound? Are you cultivating a professional attitude now?
Of course, there are behaviors that could put off an editor permanently--stalkerish behavior, for example, like calling an editor at home or bombarding her with email or phone calls, or responding with extreme anger to a rejection. But I think those are much, much rarer than the innocent flubs we all make at one time or another. I would hope we can extend some understanding to one another, and not sweat the small stuff.
September 1, 2011
Observations from my time away
It's good to take a hiking trip when you're in the middle of revising a manuscript about hiking.
For 7 days, I did not watch TV or listen to a radio. For 10 days, I did not touch a computer. I turned on my phone once a day to check messages, then turned it right off again. I didn't always have phone reception.
It was lovely.
The way I found out about the earthquake was through a headline in a day-old San Francisco Chronicle. And may I say, I certainly never expected that by traveling from Pennsylvania to California I would avoid an earthquake.
The way I found out about the hurricane was on a big-screen TV in a cafe where we were having lunch, on our way back to the city from which we were supposed to fly home. We did not actually make it home for another three days. Ultimately, I flew standby on one plane, my husband flew standby on another, and our luggage came home on a third plane.
The cat is now curled up with my suitcase, which is on the living-room floor. I think he believes he can keep me from leaving again, should I be so inconsiderate as to attempt it.
Having a dental crown pop off in the unlit washroom of a High Sierra camp is not the highlight of one's vacation.
Number of people who worried aloud about bears when they heard I was going to Yosemite: about a dozen. Number of bears I saw in Yosemite: zero.
Number of bears I saw in Sequoia National Park: 1. Number of bears that bothered me or gave any evidence they even knew I existed: zero.
Sitting barefoot next to the waterfall at Glen Aulin High Sierra camp, reading a book, I realized it was the first time in ages that I had spent an afternoon doing nothing much. And it was certainly the perfect setting in which to do nothing much. I repeated the sit-by-the-water-and-read experience at May Lake (blue-green water at the base of a mountain, fringed by wildflowers), with the same satisfaction.
Mosquitoes do not learn anything from watching their brethren get smushed: they will still land on your arm.
I love lupines almost as much as Dennis Moore does. (To the youngsters out there, I feel compelled to point out that this is a joke about Monty Python. But I really do love lupines.)
A hot shower is one of the delights of civilization.
It's nice not to have to put on sunscreen every morning.
The National Parks shuttle systems are awesome.
There are still plenty of stars in the sky, as we can see when we don't drown them out with light.
My notebook accidentally spent a night outside at May Lake. Even though it rained a bit, the book has a plastic cover and suffered no lasting damage.
Of course I carried a notebook (a paper one). It contains story notes that are probably illegible to anyone but me.
On our first full day of vacation, before we had our hiking legs under us, my husband and I climbed from Yosemite Valley up to Yosemite Point. We are insane. But in a good way.
It's been one of my lifelong dreams to see the most massive trees in the world, the giant sequoias. It turned out to be one of those dreams that lives up to expectations.
For 7 days, I did not watch TV or listen to a radio. For 10 days, I did not touch a computer. I turned on my phone once a day to check messages, then turned it right off again. I didn't always have phone reception.
It was lovely.
The way I found out about the earthquake was through a headline in a day-old San Francisco Chronicle. And may I say, I certainly never expected that by traveling from Pennsylvania to California I would avoid an earthquake.
The way I found out about the hurricane was on a big-screen TV in a cafe where we were having lunch, on our way back to the city from which we were supposed to fly home. We did not actually make it home for another three days. Ultimately, I flew standby on one plane, my husband flew standby on another, and our luggage came home on a third plane.
The cat is now curled up with my suitcase, which is on the living-room floor. I think he believes he can keep me from leaving again, should I be so inconsiderate as to attempt it.
Having a dental crown pop off in the unlit washroom of a High Sierra camp is not the highlight of one's vacation.
Number of people who worried aloud about bears when they heard I was going to Yosemite: about a dozen. Number of bears I saw in Yosemite: zero.
Number of bears I saw in Sequoia National Park: 1. Number of bears that bothered me or gave any evidence they even knew I existed: zero.
Sitting barefoot next to the waterfall at Glen Aulin High Sierra camp, reading a book, I realized it was the first time in ages that I had spent an afternoon doing nothing much. And it was certainly the perfect setting in which to do nothing much. I repeated the sit-by-the-water-and-read experience at May Lake (blue-green water at the base of a mountain, fringed by wildflowers), with the same satisfaction.
Mosquitoes do not learn anything from watching their brethren get smushed: they will still land on your arm.
I love lupines almost as much as Dennis Moore does. (To the youngsters out there, I feel compelled to point out that this is a joke about Monty Python. But I really do love lupines.)
A hot shower is one of the delights of civilization.
It's nice not to have to put on sunscreen every morning.
The National Parks shuttle systems are awesome.
There are still plenty of stars in the sky, as we can see when we don't drown them out with light.
My notebook accidentally spent a night outside at May Lake. Even though it rained a bit, the book has a plastic cover and suffered no lasting damage.
Of course I carried a notebook (a paper one). It contains story notes that are probably illegible to anyone but me.
On our first full day of vacation, before we had our hiking legs under us, my husband and I climbed from Yosemite Valley up to Yosemite Point. We are insane. But in a good way.
It's been one of my lifelong dreams to see the most massive trees in the world, the giant sequoias. It turned out to be one of those dreams that lives up to expectations.
August 30, 2011
What a long, strange trip it's been
My internet break has been even longer than I anticipated, turning into quite the saga. I will shortly attempt to distill the saga into a witty, or at least concise, form. And I will soon resume my regular social networking. But I will not be able to go back and catch up on all the blogs and messages I missed, so if you have any news, please leave it in the comments below.
