Ilsa J. Bick's Blog, page 28

Close-ups, Cake, and MONSTERS, Too

Following up on my post a couple weeks ago on profile pics, a lot of you put in your two cents.  Many came down on the side of the current Glacier picture because it’s spontaneous, a little quirky, and lets … Continue reading →

A Certain Fashion Sense

I love it when the New York Times comes out with stuff that’s really only “news” to, maybe, the five people who’ve been living in a cave the last few years.  I refer specifically to the article on the J.K. … Continue reading →

Ready For My Close-Up?

So Harry, the guy who said my blog needed some major work, mentioned that he hated my profile picture: the one where I’m in Glacier, staring at a mountain.  (A spontaneous shot, by the way.  The husband took some other … Continue reading →

My Brain, On Fear: Part II

As you’ll recall, a couple weeks ago I talked about a pretty bad dream of mine and what it might mean, specifically as it related to my work in progress.  I said then that two interpretations for that dream came … Continue reading →

Topsy the Elephant and Edison the Executioner

You know that old kid’s song, “Nellie the Elephant?”  No, I hadn’t either until I had my own children and a very wonderful British nanny who brought over a cassette one day with this song front and center.  My kids … Continue reading →

The New Look

Know how you sometimes like to change up the hair or try some funky new styles?That’s what’s going on here, I guess.  See, this really good friend of mine came for a visit.  Now, I’ve known Harry for about as … Continue reading →

My Brain, On Fear

I am a great believer in dreams.  Being a shrink, I guess you’d say it’s in the job description.  I don’t hold much stock in dreams as prognosticators of the future or omens.  The work our brains do whilst dreaming is both necessary and highly individualistic, and by and large, I look forward to dreaming more than I do sleeping.  (By the way, those who, like me, moan about just having to sleep because it’s such a time sink and complete waste when you could be doing something much more important, like working?  Consider this: a new hypothesis suggests that while your brain is feverishly filing away the day’s information, it is also restoring your brain cells to a sort of baseline set point.  Without this activity, argue UW-Madison researchers Giulio Tononi and Chiara Cirelli, your brain would be unable to encode new information.  You’d not only run out of storage capacity; your cells would pretty much crump because, as hard as they work during sleep, they must work even harder to soak up and react to all the stimuli you throw at them during any given day.

So, okay, fair enough: I’m convinced, although I didn’t need a scientist to tell me I ought to sleep.  It’s the time I mind.  On the other hand, without sleep, I wouldn’t dream quite so much.  So I guess it evens out.  (NEWS FLASH: Go without sleep long enough, and you’ll get breakthrough REM whether you like it or not.  It’s unpleasant, sometimes scary, but your brain is only trying to save itself, bub.  So forget the all-nighters already.  Your mother was right.  Get some shut-eye and dream the way your brain was meant to.)  

All this is by way of prelude to the dream I had last night or, much more likely because it is still so vivid, in my last REM cycle this morning.  (Oh, Ilsa, you can make everything so science-y.)  Like I said, I pay attention to dreams; my husband pays attention to his, too, mainly because he figures I’ll interpret them in a way that makes sense.  Usually, I do, but only because I’ve known him a long time.  (And it’s the same with a patient.  Anyone who tries to tell you what your dreams mean without getting to know you very well and for a really long time–in relative terms, that’s about three, four months of intense talking–is full of it.  You’d get more out of a Magic 8 ball.)

My dream this morning felt very long and probably lasted less than thirty seconds.  I remember only the pertinent stuff: I’m in a marriage that isn’t working with a person (I won’t say what sex, but that was interesting, too) I’d never have married in a million years.  I was uncomfortable and knew it.  We’re in a house that I’d never have chosen in my life, and it’s a primitive thing.  We have to grow our own food, make our own furniture . . . I remember taking a carving tool or an axe to a chair, I think; I say that because I remember that the back was a hollowed oval.  I was making a mess of that chair, whittling off big ol’ chunks and thinking, This doesn’t look remotely right; this isn’t going to work.  In the dream–right before I woke myself up–I thought, There has to be an easier way.  Why can’t I go live somewhere I’ve been before, where I’m way more comfortable?

I can think of two possible interpretations for this dream.  There might be more, but it’s the same thing when you say the right thing to a patient at the right time: everyone calms down.  They know you’re right, and you know it.  The tension bleeds away; there’s that little mental ding.

So this baby’s got two dings.  One . . . I can’t talk about just yet.  I’d like to; I know exactly what’s going on here and in fact, I was going to blog about it.  But I have to wait.  Stay tuned, and in two weeks, I’ll tell you because it’s an interesting topic and interesting times and we might all have to deal with this sooner or later.

The second, I can.  

Freud said that the house in a dream represents the dreamer.  For me, I’d say he’s right; just ask me about the doozy of an ooky nightmare I had right before my first visit with my training analyst: Creep City.  But I will also admit that I might be primed to believe that way.  I’d read The Interpretation of Dreams well before I stared at the acoustical tile of my analyst’s ceiling for several years.  So if that’s what the great man said, that’s what I thought was true.  In part, I think we all know that Freud was a product of his times.  Not everything he said was right, but then again, not everything he said was wrong either.  My guess is people put a lot of stock in their houses; a house is the face the public sees. We make all sorts of assumptions about people on the basis not only of where they live and how but what their house looks like.  Think about it a second, and you’ll see the truth of that.  Houses are clothes, on a larger scale.

But I also think that if cars were something I really grooved on–and I sometimes moon over a classic muscle car until someone shakes me–I might dream of being in a car I would honestly never drive.  It just all depends on the person.

So, the dream that I think I’ve got figured: it’s really kind of straightforward.  I’m now in the middle of writing something in a style and way I’ve never done, ever.  I’m pushed way out of my comfort zone.  This thing is a huge challenge–but I also put myself there, deliberately.  I did it in the way I ended one book because that would force me to try something I’ve always thought I just might not be able to pull off–and working on this book now–horror/historical/sf–is the strangest thing because my brain is fighting itself.  I’m always holding myself off at a little bit of a distance, looking at the shape of thing, listening to syntax, trying to use the right language and slang.  My critical brain is active when, normally–or after a certain point when the characters are talking, and I’ve butt out–it’s absolutely operating way in the background and so quietly, I only understand it’s there when I get up, walk away from the book for a second–and then do a head slap because, DOH! Ilsa, you idiot, you need to write it this way. 

MONSTERS was a tad like this.  What with all the storylines and characters, it took me some time to build up a head of steam.  I think I wrote something like . . . a hundred pages?  one-fifty? . . . that ended up being shredded and I had to start all over again.  There are literally hundreds of pages on the cutting floor here.  Thankfully, my memory seems to be short, but the husband tells me I fretted about that book up to the last keystroke, wondering if I was getting it right.  I do know that every POV shift, every new chapter,  each scene felt like the beginning of the next uphill run–and there was no downhill, it seemed, ever.  I knew when I was done that it was fine and more than fine–and even, my editor made a few suggestions that ended up putting back some of the pages I’d slaughtered.

This book is similar; it feels much harder probably because it is, and I’m not known for easy formulas anyway.  The thing is a challenge; the concept is way out there.  So my dream-brain is screaming for me to cut it out; give it a rest; give it up and do something familiar.  

Now, I won’t say that even the familiar is “easy.”  As I remind anyone who turns his nose up at work-for-hire in other universes: Look, bub, every word, every line, each story was original.  So what if the book featured Kirk and Spock or Seven of Nine?  There was nothing easy about it and I did it all from scratch.

So this dream is about my worry that I’ll fail.  I get that.  What is so funny about my dream is that I believe that I will fail with every new book; that the book I just finished is the best I could possibly do and I can’t ever do half as well again.  In some ways, that’s correct because I write the very best book I can at that moment; I don’t do halfsies.  Who, in their right mind, would?  That’s why I can’t answer questions about what I’d change about a book if I could go back and do it again.  I can’t ever do that book again in quite that way because I will never be the writer who did that book back then. 

So, great.  I know what’s bugging me; well, that is, I’ve told you part of it, and I’ll tell you the rest in two weeks.  The insight doesn’t make me feel much easier.  There is nothing magical about this, no aha moment.   A correct and honest interpretation won’t make my anxiety go away.   It’s like Tiger Woods, I guess: it’s about grinding it out, baby.  

In the end, I think this New Yorker cartoon sums it up best (and apologies for the shadows):

Stop by again in a couple weeks for Part Two.  Interesting times.

Trilogy-itis?

And my apologies for the funky spacing of what follows: as my husband is fond of saying about computers, we live in their world–and mine is definitely orbiting Pluto…

* * *

Earlier this week, a blog on what I would call “trilogy-itis” appeared on YALSA’s The Hub.  I think the author of the piece, Hannah Gómez, has some very valid points, although for me, most would apply to movies.  (Red 2.  Fast and Furious 4.  IronMan 3.  Die . . . Whatever.  Seriously?)   And even stringing folks along with endless sequels isn’t new; just think back to the old Saturday matinee serials, like Captain Marvel or The Perils of Pauline (which are, really, more legitimately considered continuations rather than sequels but go with it).  Heck, if you want to blame someone for creating a recurring series character, go talk to Arthur Conan Doyle.  Yes, pretty much each story was a standalone, but over time, reader familiarity bred an expectation of more of the same.  Doyle didn’t bother to keep track of every detail, but his readers sure did and still do.  That poor guy couldn’t get clear of Sherlock Holmes–and even so, Doyle’s embrace of a recurring character owes itself to a) Poe, a writer Doyle quite admired and who wrote two stories featuring the same detective and b) the well-established practice of novel serializations/installments, something Dickens and many other writers did because that was the industry back then.  In a way, they had to; it’s how they made their living because they were paid by the word or installment.  Dickens and Collins and their ilk were the pulp fiction writers of their day. 

So, really, multiple parts to stories that stretch over long periods of time is nothing new (or even confined solely to literature).  Serialization, continuations, and recurring characters are part and parcel of the mystery and thriller genres.

Anyway, I’d encourage you to read Gómez’s piece (it’s relatively brief).  For those of you not so inclined, the gist of it all is that, in her opinion, there are just way too many trilogies out there these days–and, more importantly, not all of them seem justified.  That is, the story being developed doesn’t seem to support or call for that much material and, by extension, an investment of time (and money) by her, the reader.  

Okay, I can sort of see that in certain cases and, like I said, she raises some good points.  (Tell the truth, did you really expect a sequel to the original Star Wars? The answer is no; the production company manufactured the need.)  But I can also categorically say that three of her contentions are dead wrong.  Of course, we’re only talking about my experience; I can’t vouch for other authors.  But here’s where I take issue. 

One is with this notion that keeping track of long, over-arching plots after a year’s absence is so hard.  Come on, really?  Are you telling me that you really didn’t remember what happened between Star Wars and The Empire Strikes Back?  Return of the Jedi?  The whole Lord of the Rings trilogy?  Yes, I picked movies, but they’re not necessarily “easier.”  Really, if you’ve connected with a character’s story, I’m not sure why it should be that tough to get back there in a sequel (and without a dreaded recap).  To a certain extent, thriller and mystery writers routinely expect that readers will recall pertinent details about recurring characters and previous plot lines (and again, without the need for a recap) even if what they’re presenting is a (sort of) standalone.  I say “sort of” because many mystery series feature characters with families or friends, who all change over time–and you, the reader, have to keep up (or invest some energy and read the earlier books–or just gloss over what you don’t know and go on with the story).  My own prejudice, I guess, is that if a writer does her job, there’s no need for an info dump to clue you in on what’s gone on before.  (Certainly Dickens didn’t think it was necessary.)  When people become invested in a character, they tend to remember the important bits.  



So maybe what we’re really talking about here is that this is a new request?  demand? investment? on the part of the writer for the YA reader.  I agree with Ms. Gomez: for heaven’s sake, if you don’t feel like expending the emotional energy or brain space to keeping track of this and that, don’t do it.  But just because some writers do info dumps doesn’t mean all do (I didn’t), and that’s because I trust that my readers have a brain.  The trick is putting in pertinent details to jog memories (for example, I don’t give a blow by blow about a character having been shot in a previous book; that would be boring: “Well, you know, Bob, I really thought you were a goner when the bad guys popped out from behind those bushes.  Do you remember when that happened?”  ”Why, yes, Stan, I do.  Near around April, wasn’t it?  Yeah, and by golly, gosh, I took one in the leg. Want to see my scar?”   But if I show a character having some trouble with a bum leg or massaging a scar or whatever . . . I trust that this is enough to help the reader recall: aha; right, he got shot.  See?  No info dump.  That was a show, not a tell.
 
A second point that Ms. Gomez makes is that she figures a writer can’t sell sf or fantasy these days “if you’re not willing to divide it into pieces.”  Nope; not true.  I know because I have and plan to keep doing so.  [In fact, my fans complain because they want sequels to books like Draw the Dark (a paranormal mystery) and Drowning Instinct (a contemporary, but I'm just saying).]  

Further, her statement presupposes that an author has somehow got some huge book that’s only waiting to be divided–and, uhm, that would be no.  I can’t imagine any writer plopping a twelve hundred page manuscript on an editor’s desk.  (Well, okay, Stephen King did that with The Stand–he really did; I was in the audience when the editor told that story–but I’m talking us mere mortals.)  More often than not, I’ll bet that trilogies come about as a result of an author having finished only the first book of a projected story (notice I say story not trilogy) that she hasn’t really developed all the way or even begun to write.  Anything else is just a vague idea: a six-page synopsis or, maybe, only a few paragraphs.  It was that way with JK Rowling (in fact, I don’t believe she really envisioned some huge series; she wrote a modest little middle-grade fantasy that did only okay and then she tried a couple other stories and then things took off).  
 
With ASHES, I had a finished book and an idea of where the story ought to go and that’s it.  I said as much in an article that came out late this week on PW.  [That piece featured nine authors (including me) whose series are coming to an end and what that feels like and is all about.  You can read the first part of the article  here ; for those of without a subscription, you unfortunately can't read what we authors had to say, although I did post my portion on  my Facebook page .] 

In ASHES, I had a big story, with multiple plotlines and characters, to tell.  But I only written the first installment and originally planned on one other book.  It was a (very gifted) editor who understood, even before I did, that I had much more going on in the ASHES universe than I knew at the time.  

But I hasten to add that this is not the same as Ms. Gomez’s other point with which I take issue: that editors somehow wring three books out of authors whether they’re ready or not.  No way; listen, an editor would be putting his job on the line if he pulled crap like that.  Publishing houses spend money to acquire these things; people don’t realize the amount of work that goes into the production of even a single book.  No editor’s going to pay a writer for a story that might turn out only half-assed or crappy.  That’s ridiculous.  

For me, if the ASHES story hadn’t supported or needed three books, I wouldn’t have agreed to write them (and, again,my ASHES editor had nothing to do with crafting or demanding or writing the story).  In a way, that trilogy grew as I came to know and understand my characters–something that can only happen when you’ve got the luxury of time to let things spin out.  I was so incredibly fortunate to have that time, too; I can’t tell you.  These characters truly took on lives of their own.  Now, I know I could tell more stories in that universe.  I’ve got the rudiments of a fourth book in my head; I know where I’d go next.  But for that series as a whole, I’ve done pretty much what I set out to do–and, as I said, even that changed over time.For me, I think the bottom line is that I write as much as the story requires.  Sometimes that’s a standalone; sometimes that’s a trilogy and at other times, as with my forthcoming WHITE SPACE, that’s two books.  Could I write more books in either the ASHES or DARK PASSAGES series?  Sure.  For example, I am only now beginning the WS sequel, and it’s possible that the ideas churning around in my head could expand and beg for a third book.  Not planning on it–I know the end I’m working toward here–but you never know.

Because characters and their stories really surprise you.  They do, and sometimes you have to give them the time and have the patience to allow their stories to grow.

Satisfaction Guaranteed?

First true story:  About two weeks ago, I decided to try out the Kobo app, not because I’d succumbed to any of the company’s bazillion emails for sales–most were books I wouldn’t read–but because I wanted to support independent booksellers who partner with the company.  Deal is, you go to the store’s web page and then click through to the Kobo site to buy the ebook, and your favorite indie gets a split of the profit.  (Yes, before you ask: this was the same thing Google Books tried.  That tanked.  Nuff said.)

Bottom line is the thing only sort of worked.  Yes, I could buy a traditionally pubbed book, put out by a standard publisher.  But, no, on my iPod Touch and iPad, I couldn’t really read the zillions of other ebooks, many self-pubbed, that can only be read if they’re paired with Adobe Digital Editions, which the Touch and iPad (not to mention the iPhone) does not support.  I have an Android phone, and the app only worked fitfully there as well (and required sign-ins through Kobo and Adobe for me to read anything).  And forget previews: I couldn’t see a one.  Not one. And books I did purchase weren’t showing up on my various devices either.  Couldn’t get the darned things to sync.

So I said a lot of stuff that I really shouldn’t (the cats covered their ears, and we were all good) and then I emailed Kobo Customer Service with my questions and problems.  At the same time, I went on Facebook and Twitter and ask around to see if there were solutions or work-arounds.

I’ll spare you the agony, but let’s just say that a NUMBER of emails and almost four days later, nothing good was happening, and Kobo’s replies didn’t cut it.  One even helpfully suggested that for me to read books, gosh, I really needed the app . . . which meant the guy or gal hadn’t bothered reading my original email which was all about the app.

Contrary to my normal way of doing things–I tend to suffer in silence–I vented a tad on Facebook and Twitter.  People tried to help; they really did.  Finally, after something like five days, I did something I’ve never done: went on Facebook and Twitter–even found the Kobo Twitter handle–and said I was through with Kobo and told them why.  Even now, I’m not sure why I did that, but I was just so frustrated with NO ONE bothering to solve the bloody problem for which I’d already spent money I really didn’t want to see pissed away.  But I don’t normally do these things.   Except this time, I did–and the results were shocking.  Within something like . . . wuh . . . fifteen minutes, the Kobo Help Desk people were talking to me through Twitter, asking for incident numbers and all that (I had, like, three).  In thirty minutes, they’d kicked everything up to their “Tier Two” team.  In less than two hours, the entire issue was resolved.  (Part was my screw-up, and part was theirs.  Like . . . ready for this?  You can’t read previews on any Apple device, period.  You can only read them by putting the book on a wish list . . . except not every book can be put on a wish list.  So, pretty much, you are NOT free to preview every book on Kobo–and I’m sorry, but I’m not paying for a book I can’t at least leaf through a little bit, you know?  I suggested that it might be nice if they put that  little nugget up someplace where folks with Apple devices might notice.)

Anyway, problem mostly solved, but because of, what is for me, a ridiculous escalation.  I hate doing crap like that, I really do.

Read on.

Second True Story: This morning, I decided I’d like a gander at a discounted book that just happened to be free for Amazon Prime members through the Lending Library.  Having used the library only fitfully, I thought, Cool.  So I hit the “buy” button.

Bet you know where this is going.

So I get charged.  I’m surprised; Amazon always seems to keep track of my Prime-ness . . . so what gives?  I immediately dash off an email query. I figured, okay, I’ll hear sometime tomorrow.

Eh . . . no.  Amazon popped back with a reply in five minutes.  They fixed my goof within twenty, and educated me in the bargain.  I thanked them–and I got a note back, thanking me for thanking them.

But it was painless.  No escalation; no frustration.  No public venting.  Mostly importantly, no wasted time–and guess where I’ll likely go for my next e-book?

* * *

Now, why bother with these examples?  Well, it’s pretty simple, actually: not only are we talking about customer satisfaction, the Kobo episode, in particular, speaks to public shaming.  As a tactic to force another party to respond, shaming is nothing new. All you have to do is look at the latest public protest in whatever city or country you choose–or, say, the brouhaha over James Frey’s fabrication of a memoir and Oprah’s dressing-down–to understand the tactical power inherent in public shame as a motivator.  Standing up and having my one-woman protest march on Twitter and Facebook got Kobo’s attention right quick and a resolution where days of (clueless) email replies only left me increasingly frustrated.  Put simply, Kobo cares about saving face in a highly public forum.  In this, they are no different than any other company–but it took an act of public shame to get their attention and provoke a response.

The same is often asked of us writers because readers broadcast their opinions in highly public forums; they engage in mass praise or public shame and degradation in a big way.  Like any company, though, a writer needs to be responsive to her customers.  No, no, you don’t write to committee; you don’t do what fans tell you to, and for heaven’s sake, you don’t apologize.  You wrote the book you wrote, and it won’t be everyone’s cuppa.  But people diss books on a regular basis; sometimes the attacks are personal or can get nasty.  Worse, these are carried out in highly public forums like Goodreads and Amazon, venues that, in many ways, certainly provoke responses from other readers–if you think about it, a crummy review might be all the permission that the guy who also hated the book but  wasn’t going to say anything needs.  (That is also a true fact: people frequently engage in behaviors they normally don’t if other people do it first.)  But because this is all so public, a writer might feel motivated to say something back.  

And here’s what I say to that.  Just two words: Anne.  Rice.

For those of you who need a quick refresher or were just too young to remember–and, God, you do not know how it kills me to type that–here’s what you need to know: Anne Rice was a mega bestseller (she may still be; I haven’t kept tabs).  Among other things, she pretty much kick-started the whole vampire craze with things like Interview with a Vampire and The Vampire Lestat.  This was back in 1985, okay?  Yeah, yeah, a while ago; ancient history.  Anyway, her Vampire Chronicles did gangbusters; she went on to do stuff with witches . . . honestly, I lost track after a while.  But then she came out with what I guess was a real clunker, Blood Canticle.  Haven’t read it, so I can’t comment.  Well, readers were not amused and tore her up with horrid Amazon reviews–and, you know, it happens.  It happens to everyone, even my hero, Stephen King.  But, you know, you shrug it off, or you try to.  Actually, you do yourself a favor and stay away from public forums like Amazon where you might suddenly find yourself with a new orifice you really didn’t need.

But Anne Rice . . . well, let’s just say she reacted very badly to this public shaming.  What she did was post a long–and I mean, long rant on Amazon.  Really, I don’t think the lady took a breath.  If you’ve never read it, take a couple minutes and check it out here; scroll down until you hit the review “from Anne Rice herself.“  Go ahead; I’ll wait.  

So what was Rice reacting to?  Duh . . . customer complaints, and there were a ton.  Take a couple seconds to read through some of those; you’re talking disappointed fans.  Was it the right thing for Rice to do?  Well, not for my money, although whatever you think of her ego–I mean, the woman was on her 25th book, for heaven’s sake, so she must’ve been doing something right–you have to give her points for chutzpah and offering refunds.  But I think my point here is that she reacted to being publicly shamed, and in a very big way.

I think most of us know that it’s best not to blast back, right?  You probably adopt this policy all the time without realizing it.  Case in point: you’re on Facebook; you make a comment; someone else chimes in that you’re wrong.  You then react by reiterating your point or trying to rephrase; the someone else fires back; and before long, you find that you have two choices: continue the argument–or shrug and disengage/walk away.  Me, I walk away because I’ve been a shrink long enough to know that when someone in the room is yelling or firing back or getting all defensive . . . they’ve ceased to listen.  And, really, I got better things to do.  Said what I had to say, and I’m outta here.

Same thing goes for public forums, right?  We all know this?  Don’t get into a pissing match with readers?  Readers are entitled to their opinions, and no one necessarily asked you to join in the conversation.  No one asked you to like what they say either . . . but, then again, you shouldn’t necessarily go looking for trouble (or approval).  I’m serious.  Yes, I know that needy feeling; you work hard for what feels like very little; you send your baby out into the world and watch it get shredded; you and your baby are exposed to public shame.  It’s like someone stood up in the middle of a very big, very crowded room and shouted, “Ilsa Bick’s book sucks!”  And then, in an even worst case scenario, everyone applauded and high-fived the guy.  

Hard to walk away.  I know.

But then there’s the other problem, when someone ups the ante and writes to you, personally: pops into your inbox and yells; or pops into your inbox and throws a tantrum; or pops into your inbox or your website’s comments screen and wants to know why you did x, y, z or conversely, how dare you not do x, y, z.

Then what do you do?  Do you approve the comment and respond?  Do you respond to the email?  Because this is different: it’s someone coming to you only semi-privately.  Now, emails are easier, of course; I always take the approach that not everything I do will appeal to everyone, but gee, thanks for giving the book a shot.  Mainly, I choose not to argue, and since I know the person’s already unhappy . . . well, there’s nothing I can say or do that will change that, is there?  We just keep the conversation between ourselves.

But . . . if you approve that website comment, you make the exchange public.  In a weirdly perverse way, you participate in making that shaming public because the person contacting you did so in the expectation that you two would move to a public forum . . . the reverse of taking your argument to a different room, out of earshot, or having a nice quiet chat where you won’t be overhead.  So what do you do?  Because if you don’t approve a comment, how much you want to bet that person will send you another?  And a third or fourth?  So what do you do?

My fast and simple rule: if the comment’s abusive . . . sorry, but you’re out of luck, bub.  It’s my website; you’re in my house; these are my rules.  Unlike customer service reps for Kobo or Amazon or whomever, I have the luxury of deciding if I want to pick up the phone.  Eventually even the abusive bozos get tired and give up.

But if the comment’s not a personal attack, I’ll post it, even the ones that are less than laudatory–because if you were a guest in my house, you’d be entitled to your opinion.  My own experience with this is that someone who’s got a beef will frequently want to have a conversation; if you respond in a polite and even-handed way, things calm down pretty quickly.  I’ve even had someone with a beef end up apologizing to and reassuring me that he really did like the book; he just wished I’d done things a tad differently.  It was all very civil, and no one screamed or pulled an Anne Rice.

The moral is: you can’t solve or resolve disappointment.  But it is important that you recognize that this is the emotion your readers are having if they’re upset.  Conversely, it is just as essential for you to understand that you are important enough for them to invest their energy, time, money and emotion in your work.  So take complaints that come to you seriously, and for heaven’s sake, answer that email so long as it’s within bounds.  (Believe it or not, I know writers who won’t respond to readers, period.  The mind reels.  I understand that some writers are just so deluged they’d never get any work done, but then you gotta post that on your site or something.)  

Above all, remember this: I know this feels counter-intuitive . . . but disappointment is also a bit of a compliment.  Understand that if a reader is disappointed it is because he thought or had heard you were so great, or had a wonderful experience with another book of yours.  

Then go write the next book.  That reader’s waiting for you to, anyway.

 

A Heart to Break

I’m in such a weird place right now: winding up the last book in a series that is so damned close to my heart that every time I go through a pdf (just finished the third pass, caught a few more mistakes, and so have stealed myself for the fourth pass), I end up crying all over again–and I KNOW WHAT HAPPENS!

And on the flip side, I’m doing copy-edits and revisions for WHITE SPACE, the first book of my new DARK PASSAGES series, and which, with every read-through, also reduces me to a puddle of goo–



AND I’m starting to outline the sequel, THE DICKENS MIRROR, and I’ll tell you right now: writing is hard; writing these stories is gut-wrenchingly personal.

And this sequel–this series–is like nothing I’ve tried before.

So I’ve been a little worried, and scared.  More to the point, I’ve wondered what the hell I’m doing: not just that I may not succeed, but will I kill my career trying?



Now, of course, this is crazy–the career-killing part, that is.  There will be other books; I’ll keep writing; this is why God invented pseudonyms.  As for not succeeding . . . well, hell, that’s in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?  What doesn’t work for one reader works for another.  Just think of all the books you’ve read that have gotten rave reviews but which you look at and think, Wuh?  As a good writer-friend of mine pointed out, no one book will make or break anyone.  Unless you outright plagiarize someone, no one book is the end-all and be-all of a career.  Hell, ask that guy who fibbed on Oprah, the hundred-zillion-gamillion pieces guy, and see if he isn’t laughing all the way to the bank because, baby, scandal sells, too.



Except . . . 



These past two weeks have seen two fantastic, thought-provoking blog entries by Kristine Kathryn Rusch that you really need to read in their entirety: one on the stages writers, both indie and traditional, go through at certain points in their career and, a second, very personal story about the moment and series that made Kris nearly give up writing for good.  



Kris’s second post has a lot of resonance, provokes a lot of emotion because I was kinda there when it happened.  In my comment to her, I mentioned that I remembered this whole episode–and I also agree with many other folks who’ve pointed out that while having a supportive S.O. means the world, the drive to write–to shake off disappointment and heartbreak and try again–must come from the writer.  



So read these blog entries and pay particular attention to Murder Most Foul because you need to ask yourself just how far you’d be willing to go.  I think that Kris shows remarkable honesty when she wonders if she should’ve taken her agent’s advice.  She will never know, of course, and things sometimes have a way of working out as self-fulfilling prophesies, but is yanking a series from one publisher and going to another truly a death knell?  I admit: I don’t know; I’m nowhere near as experienced to even attempt to answer this question; I wouldn’t even know who to ask.  You could say that the agent might not have suggested this if the agent thought that move would fail because we are, after all, talking business, and the agent’s got to eat, too.  But who knows?  Ask yourself how far you’d be willing to go to make a series fly–and whether, after having your heart broken, you’d have the will to drag yourself back up and try again.  Ask yourself if you really can divorce yourself and your book from “business;” if a book is truly a widget.  It’s not to me; a book’s got my blood on and in it.  Sending books out for people to shred takes a certain species of madness or courage . . . I haven’t decided which, and I haven’t yet met a writer who can truly separate herself from the widget, the finished product.  I know writers whose works have been savaged–in reviews, by bloggers, by snarky Twitterati–because this is both the blessing and the curse of social media: fans can find you, and you can go looking for trouble; you can sidle up to eavesdrop on a conversation that, really, you oughtn’t and can do you nothing but harm.



But I can relate to what Kris says.  I think of all the times I’ve come close to giving up.  I think of the time when, after a couple years of no sales of any kind, I said to myself, one more story, and then that’s it.  That’s true, by the way; that really happened to me; that’s what I’d decided: one more story, and then finis.  Happily, that story sold, and in a very big way, and that put enough wind beneath my wings to keep me going.  If it hadn’t . . . I don’t know.  Would I have quit?  I kind of think so . . . but then again, who will ever really know?



What Kris has done is, I think, very brave because she is the consummate pro and a strong woman, and stronger still by reminding us that we each have a breaking point, a place and time where and when we will shatter–because each of us has a heart to break.