Kama Falzoi Post's Blog, page 2

In Order to Write, a Woman Needs What Now?

Whenever I struggle to find time to write, Virginia Woolf’s quote floats through my mind:

The melodramatic girl inside me says, Yes, it is so true. That and that alone is keeping me from achieving my dreams! (*back of hand to forehead, fainting couch nearby)

Luckily, that other girl inside me (the scary drill sergeant one) clocks her on the head with a heavy, blunt object and everyone keeps on keeping on. Because even if I only have moments, moments do add up.

Every harried mother who writes at a coffee shop looks exactly like this.

Submitted for your consideration, here is a list of the places I have written:

A coffee shop at lunch hour
In my bed
In someone else’s bed!
At a restaurant
At a hotel
Driving, via voice recorder
Outside
On my living room couch
On your living room couch!
In a tent
Bathroom stall

You get the picture.

Bottom line is you have to have time, you have to have space, to hone your craft. I get it. Money allows you freedom from the eight-hour work day. A room of your own offers you a distraction-free space you can dedicate to your work, a place to allow that creative nutjob inside you to run free, break furniture, fall to pieces on the page and gather herself back up again. A writing oasis, if you will.

I like to think I can create that on my own, in the middle of my busy life, at any time.

Buddhist monks have trained themselves to raise their body heat by intent alone. It’s true! Human beings are capable of amazing things, but amazing things are only accomplished by discipline and persistence.

By practice.

I’ve gotten to the point where I can walk in and sit in the corner of my Monday-night writing spot, open my laptop, and pour forth words. I’ve done the same thing for two years. Ordered the same tomato feta soup and field greens salad and glass of malbec (okay, glasses). We are creatures of habit. When we’re comfortable, things around us fall away and we can concentrate, single-mindedly, on our work.

So yeah, at this time in my life that’s what it boils down to: finding pockets of time and filling them with words. Eventually, maybe I will have a room of my own (HA!), and maybe I will have money (HA!) but until then, millions of writers have made it work with dedication and discipline alone, and I’m okay with that, because that drill sergeant inside me with the blunt object? She wants to rule the world, and she’s pretty relentless.

 

 

Book Review: Anna and the Swallow Man

After fifty pages this book was in danger of becoming one of my top ten favorite books of all time. The writing is fantastic. Dreamlike, complicated, insightful. Many of the observations–through the eyes of a young girl in the middle of WWII–shine a light into the depths of the human soul. I think that’s the ultimate job of a writer, and Savit does this with a masterful touch.

The book navigates the survival of a young girl who loses her father to the war and a tall stranger she deems the Swallow Man. The Swallow Man has an agenda outside of Anna’s knowledge, and therefore outside of the reader’s knowledge, so for most of the book we are following the two of them as they wander (aimlessly?) around Poland and Russia. Because the point of view is that of a child, there’s this sort of immersion into magical realism. Thanks to the Swallow Man, Anna is kept far outside the war, even though she is in the middle of it. It reminded me (and other reviewers) of Life is Beautiful, the way the father protects his son from the true horror of their situation.

The beating heart of this book lies not with plot, as there is little, but with character and theme, which makes it more literary than mainstream. Halfway through I had to look at the spine to verify it was indeed classified as Young Adult (which it was) because it is so different than other YA books out there. Dialogue is sparse, there is no love interest, the themes are deep and the ending leaves things unfinished. Maybe the classification is due to the age of the protagonist, or maybe it was a lunge at making sales among a certain audience. Either way, I don’t imagine a middle grader making sense of something so complex.

I felt the ending was a bit rushed and out of character, which is why the rating lost a star. After developing such a lush relationship between Anna and her Swallow Man, we see this relationship start to splinter and head in a strange direction. At this point I felt the book was going the more fantastical route, but what happened instead was confusing and left me unsatisfied. I don’t mind being unsatisfied, as it keeps my brain turning well after the last page, but I guess I wanted more closure.

Maybe Savit intended to leave his readers feeling that way, because it reinforces that theme of constant wandering. Regardless, this book will stay with me for a long time.

Giving Birth vs. Publishing a Novel: A Brief Comparison

“Writing a novel is like childbirth: once you realize how awful it really is, you never want to do it again.” –Sarah Dessen

More revisions, you say?

Each stage of the publishing process is completely new to me. Sure, I’ve read tons about it, including other writers’ stories, but it’s kinda like childbirth: read all you want, but your experience will be uniquely yours. Obviously I’m not the first to think this way. There’s a cute article on the Dead Darlings site that explores this topic.

But I made a chart!

Enjoy this side-by-side comparison that I absolutely did not put together on company time.

In both cases you are creating a living, breathing thing. And in order to do that, you have to give a big piece of yourself. You toil, and suffer, and hurt, and rejoice, and then many of us do it all over again, until we finally feel done (or drop dead of exhaustion).

Either way, it’s worth it.

Yeah, I Self Published Erotic Fiction Under a Pseudonym

There I was, sitting at the dining table in front of my laptop, sweat beading on my brow, gulping red wine, typing and deleting and typing and deleting and doing a lot of creative swearing. This was my fifth revision, or my fiftieth. I’d been working on the manuscript forever. You know that sinking feeling in your stomach when you realize something you poured your heart and soul and time into is actually a giant nugget of crap? Did I forget how to write? Seemed like it. The task of yet another revision loomed in front of me. There was not enough wine in the world. I needed a break. A fresh start. A diversion.

What better than good old porn!

I put aside my work in progress and got started right away. The new book took me six weeks to write. Six weeks of pure, unbridled freedom. Instead of dread when I opened my laptop, I looked forward to continuing the prurient adventures of my passionate heroine, mining the darkest corners of my imagination for novel experiences that would titillate, offend, render speechless whatever audience dare lay their eyes upon the text. No editor sat on my shoulder scrutinizing each sentence. No inner critic bashed me over the head when I over-used adverbs.

It was just what I needed. A release. A breath of fresh air.

Like everything new, I learned from it. I mean, I learned that I could churn out smut with the best of them. But I also had to come up with a cover, front matter, a social media presence, a blurb. The experience helped prepare me for whatever was to come next. I bombarded my friends with pleas to buy my book. I looked for reviewers. I marketed.

I did not tell my dad the name of my book or my pseudonym. Because when I say erotic fiction up there in the title of this post, what I mean is the nastiest sex book you could ever imagine coming out of the brain of someone not currently incarcerated for deviant behavior.

And I freaking made thirty-eight dollars. Score! Nothing like receiving money for something you had fun doing.

Bottom line is this: I didn’t have to take things so seriously. When I came back to my work in progress-the very one I wanted to rip into a million pieces and incinerate-I came back with fresh eyes. I came back lighter. Sure, I had work ahead of me. A lot of work. A freaking shitload of motherfucking work and it continues to this day and will continue forever. But that is the very thing that makes me a writer.

 

 

How do you handle sex in YA?

“YA books allow the reader to experience another teen’s life in a safe environment.” (Laura Lascarso on her blog All the Way YA)

I started writing novels when I was eighteen. Sure, they have their charms, but more prevalent, their gigantic unforgivable issues. They’re all snug in the back of my closet, probably blushing. Each one is a lesson learned. An exercise. As bad as they are, they were necessary.

They all had this in common: I struggled with the love scenes.

Have you ever tried to write a love scene? More to the point, a sex scene? Let me know how you did it. I kept imagining my father reading over my shoulder. My father does not need to read a graphic description of how a tongue feels on the inside of a thigh. God forbid he think I know firsthand what that feels like! Anyway.

In my experience, there are four ways to handle sex scenes (I’m generalizing here):

…and he closed the door behind him. Also known as the, “she blew out the candle and the room went dark” technique. Or any other variation where sex is only implied. I see this a lot in YA.
Romance novel euphemisms. You know. When she pressed against him, she felt his urgency against her thigh etc. etc. Not too graphic, but still obvious. Definitely appropriate some places, and not others.
Honesty. Think Judy Blume’s FOREVER (a popular target of censorship. Because what honest work isn’t?). If you can do this well, more power to you. Your readers will benefit, because a lot of them will connect to it.
Straight up explicit raunchiness. This has its place, for sure. Glen Duncan’s I, LUCIFER, for instance. James Salter’s A SPORT AND A PASTIME, Pauline Réage’s THE STORY OF O. Done well, it fits the characters, fits the tone, fits the audience. Probably doesn’t belong in YA. Yeah, most definitely not. But why not? Don’t teenagers experience this type of thing? (I’d love to hear comments.)

Here’s some great guidance from the SwoonReads blog: “The point of a sex scene in a YA novel (or in any love story really) is the emotional effect on the characters. How does having sex change their relationship? If it was their first time having sex, do they have regrets the next day for their lost virginity? Was it a wonderful experience that brings them closer or was it kind of terrible and something that they have to get past?”

And a clip from another article on the subject by Kelly Jensen on BookRiot: 

Point is, addressing sex in YA is necessary, because it’s real. It’s handled in many different ways, but like any other well-written scene, it shouldn’t get in its own way. Shouldn’t yank the reader from the dream, shouldn’t make them (or you) cringe because it doesn’t reflect the true nature of the characters. If it does—like anything else you write—take a different approach. And maybe leave the door open behind you.

Where I Rate the Avengers Based Solely on My Ignorance

There’s an overload of testosterone in my house. Even three quarters of my cats are male (you do the math). So when it comes time for family movies they are typically of the superhero variety, and rather than miss out on this special bonding time by dozing off to the comforting sounds of robot gun things and Robert Downey Jr. quips, I decided to really dig deep and try and get caught up in the action.

Unfortunately, I found myself pretty confused. My husband gets annoyed at the barrage of questions from my son, but honestly, that kid is doing the work for me. Because I have no idea why a hole opened in the sky, and I don’t know what that scepter does, and let me guess this whole thing ends with a giant battle, right?

For me, the best part of the movies are the characters (read: buff, attractive men in tight outfits). So I decided to do all you like-minded people a favor and cut to the chase. Below I have ranked the Avengers in order: from the coolest all the way down to Captain America.

1. Natasha Romanoff. My four year old son’s favorite Avenger is Natasha Romanoff. When asked why, he said, “Because she’s smart and a good fighter.” Mic drop! 

2. Thor. Come on. We’ve got angry mutants and rich playboys and a guy who can shoot a bow and arrow really fast, and then we’ve got Thor. Son of Odin. A god. Is it really even fair? At first I got him mixed up with He-Man, and I couldn’t wait to see Battle-Cat in action. Alas, a different universe entirely. He-Man and Thor do share a couple traits: namely long blonde hair and huge muscles. Except where He-Man was kind of shiny and orange, Thor is more of a pale matte.

Note: I bet Chris Helmsworth is glad he didn’t have to wear that codpiece, but none of the rest of us are.

3. Iron Man. Also known as Tony Stark. So he’s flying everywhere completely encased in really heavy armor that he invented because he’s a rich tech genius. But the thing about Iron Man compared to all these other Avengers is that when he is not in that iron doohickey he is just a regular man with a glowy thing in his chest. Just a regular man!

He couldn’t fit the sunglasses inside his helmet thing.

But he’s super rich, and funny as shit, so he’s got that going for him. Plus remember him in Weird Science? Therefore I rank Iron Man as the third coolest Avenger.

4. Hulk. What can I say. Bruce Banner is every girl’s dream: a brilliant physicist with a bit of an edge to him. It just so happens he was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time (namely, in a bunch of gamma rays) and since then, when angered, he turns green, busts through his clothes and goes apeshit on all the things. Everyone has their dark side. So he causes millions of dollars in damage when his feelings get hurt. Are you judging? We all harbor that inner Hulk. Might be nice to let it out once in a while.

Show us how you really feel.

5. War Machine. Well what do you know. It’s Don Cheadle. Who is not even close to being a white dude. Even the Harvard Political Review acknowledges a superhero diversity problem. It’s a great read.

6. Hawkeye. I think this guy’s talent is that he is a good archer. I’m not sure why he’s an Avenger. One time he was brainwashed by Loki and attacked the Avenger’s giant submarine/spaceship thing. Not nice, Hawkeye! Maybe stick to disarming bombs!

7. Captain America. At first I was like, snooze fest! The outfit, the name… it’s all a bit ethnocentric, a bit overly patriotic, like to the point of eye rolling.

America, fuck… meh

But the movies are aware of that. One or two self-deprecating jokes and we’re over it. Plus that shield is pretty tough, and the guy can punch a punching bag RIGHT OFF THE LITTLE HOOK THING. Luckily it appears he has an endless supply of punching bags. Problem is, he doesn’t swear and he doesn’t steal. Two of my favorite things! Look. Cappy is your boy-next-door kind of do-gooder, and we need more of those in this day and age. But he’s got a giant A on his forehead. He ranks last.

There, that’s my assessment. I know what you’re thinking. She didn’t cover Tigra or Starfox or Two-Gun Kid! Well to that I say you are a giant nerd.

 

What would you do if there were no consequences?

You know how if an airplane starts to plummet out of the sky there’s this idea that the people on board can finally throw caution to the wind, have sex in the aisles, smoke cigarettes, wear white after Labor Day, etc.?

Best movie ever.

What if we had that kind of complete freedom without the whole crashing-in-an-airplane thing?

Imminent death yields this mindset: nothing I do at this moment matters. What if we could capture that, just for a few hours?

No consequences. What would people do? What would you do?

That’s the premise of When We Go Flying, a story L.A. Little was gracious enough to include in his anthology, OUTLIERS OF SPECULATIVE FICTION (um, for sale here at Amazon).

An excerpt:

“…she just shakes her head at me like I’m a kid, like she knows the secret of the world and I don’t. But I do, and it’s this: the world doesn’t have any secret. We’re like those seeds that fall from maple trees, those helicopters, those whirligigs. Our life is the flight down. We’re twirling and weaving at the whim of the air currents. Once you can admit that, you’re free.”

I was lucky to be part of this project, because it includes a whole bunch of authors way more awesome than me: Cat Rambo (Cat freakin Rambo!), S. Kay, P.E. Bolivar… And tons more. Weird, wild tales in that cozy spot just to the left of reality.

 

My Son Takes Dance Classes

Here it is: I enrolled my four-year-old son in dance class. I know what you’re thinking. Dance class is so expensive! Yes, yes it is. But thirty-eight dollars a month is a small price to pay to watch an experienced dance instructor spend thirty-five of the forty-five minute class wrangling errant post-toddlers. (“Ava Grace! Stop licking the chalk off the floor!”)

He wouldn’t step foot in the studio until I bribed him with video games.

I never took dance myself but my sister did for years, and she would teach me the positions in the basement of my childhood home, next to my father’s workshop, where I would one day hollow out a length of wood to make a homemade pipe. But that is a story for a different day. Anyway, I was more into sports and ninjas as a child, a hardcore tomboy, often mistaken for a boy.

So why did I sign my son up for dance? My son: a category 5 hurricane even in the womb, drawn now to monster trucks and werewolves and the humor of bodily functions. A pulsing, vibrant, mercurial force of nature who runs on endless batteries. He has no interest in anything pink, gauzy, graceful, coiffed, sequined, or glittered. Yet at dance these things surround him.

AND HE FREAKING HATES IT.

So why did I do it? Perhaps I wanted to throw a rock through the window of socially-reinforced gender roles? Am I advocating for my son the unsurpassed strength, posture, and controlled physicality ballet brings to its practitioners? Or is it something else? Some unexplored childhood fantasy I’m projecting–as all parents do–on my progeny?

Yeah, nope. I saw the name of the class (“Creative Movement”) in a brochure and thought they’d be doing somersaults and shit, so I signed him up. Lesson learned.