Rachel Hartman's Blog, page 47
May 15, 2011
Why do I write?
I was at a barbecue in February, talking to an old physicist. He asked me what I did for a living, and the conversation turned (as it inevitably does) to my Epic Publishing Odyssey. The story spans eight years, a continent, and the entire breadth of my sanity; I've got the telling down to an art.
I was at the most astounding part, the part that elicits either laughter or cries of dismay from my listeners: "And then, after sitting on my manuscript for nine months, my editor finally gets back to me and says: The novel's beautiful, but the plot has to go!"
I waited for the physicist's jaw to drop, but he didn't look as outraged as I had anticipated. He rubbed his jowls with a heavy hand and said, "How is that possible? How can the plot go?"
"It just meant he loved everything else about the book," I said. "My editor loved the characters, the worldbuilding, the themes and ideas, and my writing style. He wanted me to keep all those things, but make them into a more interesting story."
"Yes, I understood that," he said. "What I don't understand is how you could bring yourself to change the plot completely. Wasn't it important to you?"
"Clearly, if I cared about plot, I would have had one to begin with," I said, trying to keep grinning.
He shook his head, gazing into the middle distance as if I'd blown his mind. "I thought that's why people become writers: because they have a story to tell," he muttered as he drifted off toward the grill. I stared after him, put out that he was preventing me from finishing a story I did care about.
I've been thinking about the conversation ever since.
The question niggles: why DO I write? I sometimes think I've been at this so long that I don't really remember. Maybe it's inertia. I write because I started writing a long time ago, and it seems easier to keep going than to stop. Certainly there have been times when the going was so hard that my reasons were little more than a matter of faith: I believe I had a reason once; I believe I'll remember what it is eventually.
Obviously I do tell stories, and like stories, but that's not the end, for me. Stories are the means to the end, the vehicle for something else. They're part of what I do, but they're not why I'm doing it.
Why? still dangles over me. On nice days, when I'm not feeling burned out and run down, I remember. I walk down the street under falling plum petals and I know why, in excruciating detail.
But this has gotten very long already, so maybe I'll leave it there for now. Maybe I'll ask you why you write, if you do. Is some story burning a hole in you? Or is there something else to it?
I was at the most astounding part, the part that elicits either laughter or cries of dismay from my listeners: "And then, after sitting on my manuscript for nine months, my editor finally gets back to me and says: The novel's beautiful, but the plot has to go!"
I waited for the physicist's jaw to drop, but he didn't look as outraged as I had anticipated. He rubbed his jowls with a heavy hand and said, "How is that possible? How can the plot go?"
"It just meant he loved everything else about the book," I said. "My editor loved the characters, the worldbuilding, the themes and ideas, and my writing style. He wanted me to keep all those things, but make them into a more interesting story."
"Yes, I understood that," he said. "What I don't understand is how you could bring yourself to change the plot completely. Wasn't it important to you?"
"Clearly, if I cared about plot, I would have had one to begin with," I said, trying to keep grinning.
He shook his head, gazing into the middle distance as if I'd blown his mind. "I thought that's why people become writers: because they have a story to tell," he muttered as he drifted off toward the grill. I stared after him, put out that he was preventing me from finishing a story I did care about.
I've been thinking about the conversation ever since.
The question niggles: why DO I write? I sometimes think I've been at this so long that I don't really remember. Maybe it's inertia. I write because I started writing a long time ago, and it seems easier to keep going than to stop. Certainly there have been times when the going was so hard that my reasons were little more than a matter of faith: I believe I had a reason once; I believe I'll remember what it is eventually.
Obviously I do tell stories, and like stories, but that's not the end, for me. Stories are the means to the end, the vehicle for something else. They're part of what I do, but they're not why I'm doing it.
Why? still dangles over me. On nice days, when I'm not feeling burned out and run down, I remember. I walk down the street under falling plum petals and I know why, in excruciating detail.
But this has gotten very long already, so maybe I'll leave it there for now. Maybe I'll ask you why you write, if you do. Is some story burning a hole in you? Or is there something else to it?
May 13, 2011
The Amazing Test Post!
Just trying to see how this blog posting system works, and to decide whether it's better to write new entries here or import my existing blog. Thinky thinky...
