Testing, Testing

I just picked up this handy dandy blogging app for my iPad called BlogPress. So far I've synched up my four different blogs, and now I'm about to test this baby.

Overheard conversation from Professional Writing (where I am hiding in the back of the room) - "I just want to shoot those Jersey Shore douchebags in the face with a potato gun." For once, that wasn't a professor quote (as opposed to all of the fun things I've already quoted for Facebook).

I am in love with this class.

Edit: He just called us a bunch of fuckers. I have found Nirvana in the middle of rural Pennsylvania.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Let the Nervousness Commence, Part Deux

Remember the post I made a few months ago about submitting Teahouse?

Something happened with the communication between myself and the publisher, and the manuscript was never read. No big deal, really. He got back to my “Hey, have you gotten around to reading my submission?” email within a day and I resent the file.

Now I have to sit and agonize all over again, though.

I don’t get this way with short stories. I write them, read them over, revise and send them out, often forgetting about them after I’ve recorded them over on Duotrope. If they’re accepted, great. If they’re not, they go out again. I can do this over and over and over and never feel even the slightest pang of anxiety. I know my stuff when it comes to short fiction, and for the most part I’m unshakably confident about my abilities.

With novels? Forget it. I’m riddled with self-doubt and nervousness from the moment I write the first sentence to the time I feel I’m finally ready to send it out into the world. I have zero confidence overall with a novel, even if there are paragraphs here and there (sometimes even whole chapters, believe it or not) that I feel are completely solid.

I can write short stories just fine.
I can whip out flash like nobody’s business.
I can edit the hell out of anything you put in front of me.
I can read, formulate an opinion for and review other writers’ novels with absolutely no trouble.
I can conduct interviews with authors, editors and publishers without a single issue or dull moment.

I cannot write novels without reducing myself to a twitching, nervous wreck.

I used to think that I only needed a bit more experience in writing long fiction before the feeling would fade away, but it hasn’t diminished much at all. Between Teahouse, Rain and now Ghostbox, I still feel like I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing. As a reviewer, I’m handed books all the time. As I read them (and the ones I read simply for pleasure), I notice how each author handles scope, pacing, subplots and all the other things that go into long-form fiction. None of them in any way resemble what I end up throwing down on paper. Compared to most other writers, my own novel-writing efforts feel very sparse, like short stories that have dragged on too long. My own work feels like it lacks the layers characteristic to novels. They feel like they’re nothing but details dictated to the reader in a dull monotone broadcast by a broken, rusting piece of antique machinery.

I do go back to my older work, long after it’s been finished, and reread with a fresh eye. Occasionally I find myself even enjoying it from a detached standpoint, but I always wind up asking myself, “Is this really the way it should have been?” I often find myself wanting to write it differently but completely unable to do so.

I think one of my biggest problems, at least with Teahouse, is that it takes place (in part, at least) at the junction between two cultures, and I’m terrified I’m going to be incorrect with some facts or that my intent is going to be misconstrued. I remember during the beta reader phase when one critiquer told me that involving Japanese characters made me look like an anime fanatic. I wanted to slam my face off my desk. They also, I believe, told me I’d ripped key plot points off a well-known Japanese film, which it only had the most passing of similarities to. A common event (and I mean common - this is the kind of thing that you read about in papers or see on the news frequently) occurs in both stories. Oh, I was furious. I almost changed the entire backstory. That’s how paranoid I became. It’s a good thing I decided against it, but still, what if this happens all over again if/when the book is published? Is it good enough to withstand that kind of nonsense? I don’t know.

I’ve been driving my author buddies, and even some of my non-writer confidantes, nuts with this lately. They shush me and tell me I’m crazy, or that my long fiction is just fine, but I still feel like scrapping it and starting all over most of the time. Every time I update Rain I want to just tank it and forget the project was ever conceived. A little voice inside me constantly pipes up and lets me know it’s probably better to just conclude the story at its logical end and be done with it sans drama, so my little Facebook novel still exists.

I don’t know. I doubt this feeling will ever go away, no matter how many times I finish a novel manuscript. I suppose it’s just one of those weird personality defects that you can never rid yourself of. I will forever be the paranoid novel-writer, no matter how much my skills improve.

I suppose there are worse things I could be, like the horrible writer who doesn’t realize they’re horrible. I think that would be more humiliating in the long run.

The Odd Things We Need

I’ve always been an incense burner, or at least since my adolescent years. I fell in love with the stuff early on and it never let me go. During my teens, I had a rather large collection of it. There was incense for relaxing, incense burned for specific scents (coconut and other fruity concoctions) and incense I needed while I read or wrote.

Burning incense while writing was always a big deal for me. It helped set the mood, and I often found myself more able, or at least more eager, to cultivate new ideas while sitting inside a light, perfumed cloud.

There was one incense I loved more than the others, one I bought from a head shop in my hometown that sold handmade jewelry, tie-dyed clothes, Spiritual Sky oils and (according to the older kids who always seemed way cooler than I) pot. Once the head shop changed ownership and the merchandise was rotated, I could no longer find it there, and over the years I forgot the name of it. All I could remember was that it came in either a purple or dark blue box, in small quantities, and it smelled unlike anything else I had ever had. I burned it as much as I could while I had it, and once it was gone it seemed to be gone forever.

Every time I found a place that sold incense, I’d look for it, but the only thing that came in a blue box like that was Satya Sai Baba Nag Champa, a wonderfully-scented (and possibly the most well-known here in the States) stick that I enjoy to this day but isn’t, sadly, the incense of my teenaged memories.

I found it, recently, while browsing an online incense shop. There are photos for each listing, and I carefully scrolled through, trying to find a match to that old rectangular box of memory. And there it was.

It’s from Padmini, and it’s called Spiritual Guide.

I have a stick burning right now, and all the old memories are coming back. The trashy horror novels with half-naked vampires on the covers, my obsession with Dell Abyss titles, the notebooks I’d scribble obsessively in and carry around on my person as if escorting a precious artifact from one danger-filled location to another. I was such a dork, and it was such a wonderful (if strange and occasionally painful) time.

I’m going to be working my ash-dusted wooden burner overtime today, just to overload myself on nostalgia. Perhaps I’ll write 3500 words of bloodsucking narrative today in celebration, as well.