I’m Not Programable

It’s that time again to remind you that I have out-of-control A.D.D. or since I’m an adult it is A.A.D.D, as fully explained in a post I wrote in April called Focus.

This scattered-minded affliction requires a great amount of skill to write a blog post on a regular basis and even more challenging, to write a short story, and darn near impossible to write a whole freakin’ novel, all of which I do with the ease and expertise of an agoraphobic public speaker; an acrophobic high rise window washer, a claustrophobic elevator repairman. You get the idea.

Today I did not wake up with some awe-inspiring notes for a blog post. No. That happens every day. It’s sitting in one place long enough to write it, and then, when I do I forget what I’m going to say and write by the seat of my pants. So rather than my usual random posting, I shall link to another kindred spirit that I found on Novel Journey whom speaks dear to my heart.

Speaking of kindred spirit, Judy talks about the wonderful world of yoga on her blog today. And other than my brief excuse explanation of cluttered-brain-doesn’t-want-to-empty syndrome, is that my brain can’t. In high school, I had a psychology teacher who hypnotized his students as part of the class assignment. As all the heads slumped to their desks upon his command, I sat there wide-eyed and ever alert. After several such group hypnosis’s, it became abundantly clear it wasn’t happening for me. He wouldn’t give up hope. He then tried one-on-one hypnosis and when that failed, he then gave me my prognosis: I’m not programmable. That wasn’t what he said, but that was what he implied. After seeing my let down, he told me the bright side was that though I could never be hypnotized, I could also never be brainwashed.

So given the amount of opportunities there are out there to thwart a brainwash attack, I don’t see much advantage for having a busy brain. I can’t train the brain; I’ve tried. Each and every day I formulate a new plan, new and improved fail proof plans that involve lists, timers, routines, and severe punishments that involve food deprivation and sometimes depending on how ruthless I’m feeling, exercise. Each day I fail.

Today I failed.

I was to begin writing at promptly 9am. I sit. I get up because I forgot the litter box. I sit again and open my email. One hour later, I decide my hair is in my eyes. I cut my hair. I sit. The phone rings. It is someone wishing me a happy birthday. Is it my birthday? I sit, but remember I can’t leave my hair on the floor. I vacuum. I fold clothes. I …

Is there hope? Is there a straight forward path to the focused thought? And more importantly, do you think there will ever be a market for a novel comprised entirely of fragmented stories that have thirty different plot lines and none at all? Just wonderin’.

Are we just jealous?

I have the Telegraph to thank for today’s post. I had an idea for a topic I wanted to address, but this came along, …”Dan Brown’s 20 Worst Sentences,” and I just had to share. http://tinyurl.com/r6tye2 . It seems the two most bashed authors these days are Dan Brown and Stephanie Meyer. They are loved or hated as discussed in my last post. Loved by the general reading public and hated by critics in the publishing industry. The more masses to love them, the more the industry will bash them.

I can see both sides of the issue. As a general reader, I read Angels and Demons, and The Da Vinci Code long before the hysteria. No one was complaining as much back then. I read them with the focus on entertainment and never noticed the flaws that are magnified by today’s critics. I aborted my efforts on Twilight only because I saw the movie before I finished the book and that always spoils it for me. You can bet I’ll read it again with a critical eye for what the fuss is about.

I don’t discount the critics, either. As a writer hoping to be published, I know how hard it is—all of it: writing, re-writing, the query, finding an agent—so it won’t go unnoticed when someone puts forth less effort with an undeserved bestselling result. However, when I read the Telegraph’s article on Dan Brown’s 20 worst sentences, I realized that those are simple mistakes that a critique group and an editor could’ve easily solved. I pictured making some of those mistakes and I’m pretty confident my critique group would have called me on them. That’s all he needed. It’s all Ms. Meyer needed, too. They are great storytellers in need of beta readers and editors. And in some cases just left alone. Take for example number 20, of the 20 worst sentences. I’m currently reading a novel right now by a famous and respected author who does many such “offenses” as the one below.

20. Angels and Demons, chapter 1: Although not overly handsome in a classical sense, the forty-year-old Langdon had what his female colleagues referred to as an ‘erudite’ appeal — wisp of gray in his thick brown hair, probing blue eyes, an arrestingly deep voice, and the strong, carefree smile of a collegiate athlete.

They say the first rule of fiction is “show, don’t tell”. This fails that rule.

And then there’s this one.

15. The Da Vinci Code, chapter 4: As a boy, Langdon had fallen down an abandoned well shaft and almost died treading water in the narrow space for hours before being rescued. Since then, he’d suffered a haunting phobia of enclosed spaces – elevators, subways, squash courts.

Other enclosed spaces include toilet cubicles, phone boxes and dog kennels.

 What did they want him to do, name every single enclosed place there is?

I see some of the other points critics noted and I cringe at most of them, especially number one. But by the looks of it, he’s clearly, and unfairly, picked on. These aren’t mistakes made on one book, but four. Approximately 2000 pages and those are the worst they came up with? He should be commended, not condemned. Surely if we look hard enough we can find mistakes in all the novels we read. If not mistakes, then poor word choices or a misplaced thought

I didn’t read all 691 comments on the article. In fact, I only read the first five. My favorite was the comment that pointed out all the grammar errors in the article itself—errors, I believe, that are worse than those that were criticized. Way to go stephen-comment from Oct. 26,  10:04am. Check it out.

I appreciate flawless writing as much as the next guy/gal, but tell me, would you rather read a gripping story with some clumsy sentences, or a masterpiece of prose that’s a cure for insomnia? (That masterpiece, btw, may have a poor word choice or two, but nobody talks about those.)

 

 

Book reviews: Do you want to be liked by all or loved by few?

I’m getting into the good habit of writing a brief review for books I’ve read on my Goodreads (see side bar). I’m getting into the bad habit of taking a bad book personally, as if its inability to woo me is a personal insult. I think part of that behavior stems from having so many books on my “to read” list that I get pissed off if I waste time on one I don’t like.

I started a new shelf on Goodreads called “aborted efforts.” I hope to utilize that shelf more in the future instead of wasting my time on something that doesn’t float my boat. There is only one problem with aborted efforts and that is hurt feelings. Worse than seeing a bad review of your work is seeing someone couldn’t stomach to finish it. Yikes.

After I post my review, I read what others had to say and I’m starting to see a pattern. Those books I’m most emotional about—good or bad—have the widest ranging views. For instance, if I loved a book and gave it five stars, I then notice about half the other reviewers also gave it five stars and the other half one star. Sure there would be a trickle or two in the three star range but the pendulum pretty much swings to the far sides. The books I give three star ratings also have abundance of three stars from other reviewers.

This lends the question of if ever I am fortunate to have my book read and reviewed, which would I like more: to be liked by all? Or be loved, cherished, and praised by as many people who hated, banished, and ridiculed it? I know that bad publicity sells as many books as good publicity. In fact, I admit to reading books just because of the emotional outcry of its horribleness more than its wonderfulness. I want to see what the fuss is about and why so many feel so strongly about its awfulness. (My overuse of –ness is not lost on me. I’m aware of it and feel like breaking a rule. Let’s just be thankful I’m not making up new words today.)

Would the fanfare of love be worth the hate I must endure? But in answer to my earlier question I think I’d choose the strong emotions one-star/five-star response over the safe three-star. Which would you choose?

Weathering the storm

Fresno had its first big storm in recent history. It rained yesterday so hard and for so long that I could do nothing else but to stare at it all day long. As a rain-deprived person living in a rain-deprived city (state?), I cherished each moment; I was in paradise.

I loved rain my whole life. I sneered at weathermen (women) who called rain ugly. Or anyone else who mentioned the “bad” weather we’re having. I’d be a perfect fit in Seattle or other places with high rain count. The times I’ve visited tropical places—Jamaica, Hawaii, Cancun—I wanted to spend as much time in the rainforests as I did the beach.

But places that see little rain suffer when it finally comes. The trees that receive its nourishment from the three-times-a-week shallow watering have roots that grow near the surface, where the water is. So heavy rains result in easily toppled trees. And walking home from my daughter’s school this morning, I saw several semi-mature trees uprooted, lying on their sides, knocked over by a light wind and water-soaked roots.

The trees that still stand are the ones who will benefit from the storm, made stronger because of the deep watering. For each storm it survives, it becomes stronger because of it.

I feel the same about writing. For each storm I endure, be it writer’s block, rejection, self-doubt, I become stronger for it.

It can either make us or break us.

I admit wanting to lie on my side and call it good, over, done, finished—everyday. But the fact that I forge ahead against the wind, against all odds, says I’ll be here awhile, plugging away, letting the smallest of successes strengthen my roots.

Write Gooder Faster

Miss Snark’s First Victim is holding another Secret Agent contest for Adult Fiction only. http://misssnarksfirstvictim.blogspot.com/2009/10/october-secret-agent-submission.html

I’ve added two pages at the top of my blog: Ask Me has her own page now for the asking. So anytime you have a question, she is just a page click away.

I will add pages and/or links of any writing I had published. The page titled Ruthless Gypsies was published in the March/April of The Rambler, a print magazine that is now closed down indefinitely—dang.

Also, since I’ve been catching up on three year’s worth of camera card backlog, I finally found one picture of me that wasn’t my backend, hindend, eyes closed, looking too stupid to live, or looking like an advertisement for a lesson on “Learning to Talk More Gooder Fastly”. You see why now I’ve been hiding behind the cats.  But dagnabbit, the kitty is cuter, there’s no denying it. I planned on only having my face on my blog but leaving kitty on my gravatar, but somehow I got it backwards and I’m too impatient to figure it out.

So those are my updates for now. I’m all done with my photos and can now concentrate on writing again and hopefully, maybe, someday, regular blog postings (at least once a week).

Have you had any hiccups in your routine lately?

Cake Disasters

These last two weeks I’ve been busy with a project I’ve been putting off for three years, which is part of the reason I haven’t been writing. I’ve been downloading pictures from my camera cards—all 600 of them—pictures that is. Another casualty of writing full-time.

It all started with my daughter’s 10^th birthday. Her birthday was a formal princess/tiara/fancy updos, the whole shebang. Naturally parents want pictures and naturally I promised I would take them. So one thing led to another and I began the selection process, which led to setting up an online Walgreens photo account, which led to my discovering themed borders available, which led to hours upon hours, upon days and now weeks of this photo project. I’m still working on the cropping, rotating, red eye, and I’m actually leading up to the point of this post. I can’t bake a pretty cake to save my life.

First off, I hate to cook. The closest thing to cooking I marginally enjoy is baking: cakes and cookies in particular. But I AM NOT GOOD AT IT.

Exhibit A: This cake we call the Butt Cake for obvious reasons. You can see I tried to repair its implosion with skewers. As you can see, it was not effective. This was my sister’s birthday cake and as I was contemplating running to the store before she got there, she arrived, thus the body language of embarrassment I portray. (No, I didn’t crop my head off to remain mysterious. Most pictures I’ve seen so far of me are of my backside or headless. When I find a suitable photo, I will change my avatar.)

This is what the cake looked like the next year. I went out and bought it.

Exhibit B: My daughter’s birthday cake we call the Insect Cake for obvious reasons. Don’t worry, this cake was for family eyes only. It was the product of too much batter left over from making cupcakes for her classroom in her birthday honor. I had enough batter to make one layer of a layer cake, and that with the extra cupcakes, I created something frightful and buggy eyed.

 

 

Exhibit C: It’s now my husband’s turn for cake disgrace. My being astute to my past failures led me to stay away from making a cake this time. So I made him a cheesecake.

But something bad happened. (What? You’re shocked, you say?)

I was heading over to the stove with the crust, ready to pour the batter in it and bake, and lo-and-behold the crust flew out of the tin and landed right on top of the batter and crumbled into pieces. We call this one Cheesecake Crumble Surprise.

This is why I stick to writing for my creative outlet.

I am not the only person frustrated about their foodie failures. This last photo is of my sister. She spent the better part of the day churning ice cream to feed eleven people. Her hard-worked efforts produced enough ice cream to fill a Baskin Robbin kiddie cup. As you can see, she is disappointed.

These are just a few of my kitchen failures. None of the others was captured on film—thank God. I have a reputation. Family members expect me to deliver the same results each time. They put in their orders months ahead of time. It’s tough living up to these expectations.

Is there a bit of you that is so bad you could have a cult following, a B movie made in honor of it?

Writing analogy

I’m going to use surfing as an analogy to writing. I don’t surf; I’ve never surfed, but I’m using surfing to drive home a writing point.

Glossary:

Surfer: Writer

Surfing: Writing

Wave: The momentum

Injuries/bruises: Rejections

Beach: Agents

Sand: Writer’s block

I’ve been riding the wave for two of the two and a half years of writing my novel. Every day I hit the ocean, rain or shine, and swim atop my board, waiting for the wave. When the first wave appears, I tense and prepare for the ride. Most of the time I fall off, but I keep riding the wave all day long. I repeat this act every day. Sometimes I sustain injuries, but I return knowing it is all part of the sport. They are wounds of achievement—like a tattoo of perseverance.

I am preparing for The Competition. The Competition will take place at the famous Hawaiian surfing beach called North Shore. I want to compete at North Shore, but there is one problem. If you fall off, you can’t surf there again. If you ride the wave with perfection, the beach will accept you and you are now worthy of that beach.

So for two years I’d practiced for the North Shore until one day. I decide to wait for the wave while sitting on the sand. Silly me, the wave comes but I’m too far away. I know I must take the plunge but the sand is so warm. I notice my wounds have all healed and I’m sad. I stay there a while and drift to sleep. I wake up occasionally and remember the goal: North Shore, but the sand is so warm.

So warm.

Are you where you want to be?

The Letter Writer

First off, let’s all have a moment of get well thoughts for my favorite writer Garrison Keillor who had a stroke. He is expected to recover and to continue being funny. He is on my bucket list of people I need to hug before I die. I missed my chance when he came to Fresno a few years ago. I was/still broke and couldn’t afford to see his performance. Next time I’ll send him a long, windy letter of my deep and undying love for his masterful literary prose and how he can impress me with his comic ability without resorting to cheap or sleezy gimmicks.

Speaking of letters … the letter above will never happen and this is why: I can’t write a letter no faster than I can write a book.

When rumor trickles amongst your circle of acquaintances that you are a writer, all of a sudden you are expected to whip out a letter—as a favor of course—to every disgruntled, offended, opinioned person who crosses your path.

“Oh, you’re a writer. Can you write me a letter to the editor?” (NO!) or “Hey guys (PTA) Tricia is a writer, maybe she can write the campaign letter. (No, she can’t.) or “Can you write my cover letter for my resume?” (NO. I can’t.)

Why? you ask.

Because I am obsessive compulsive. I can’t whip out a letter. The words must first come to me in a dream. I must construct an outline, a synopsis, and I must have a second and third set of eyes for content before I even get to the bare bones of the first draft. Then comes the draft. The printouts, the tear ups, the start overs, the nap.

I tried to write a letter on my own behalf. Piece of cake, you say. No pressure writing that cover letter before the job position was filled, and before I could even get through the outline. No pressure about school ending, campaign ideas tossed, and no longer being allowed at PTA meetings all due to a glitch in the fiftieth draft of my campaign letter. No pressure that the presidential subject in the letter to the editor was three presidents ago, thus sounding more like a history essay than a disgruntled political rant.

But you are wrong. There is pressure. I wanted to write a letter to my back doctor (neurosurgeon) about my paying co-pays and deductibles to see him. And co-pays and deductibles for the tests he orders. And doing it all again so I can get results. YET I HAVE NEVER SEEN HIM. I do not know what he looks like.

My last MRI test results came from the janitor. I swear! I kept trying to escape, but the front desk guards refused my exit, promising that the doctor would be in any minute and that I shouldn’t be upset that I’ve only had to wait for two hours so far—and without a book I might add. They shoved a modern mechanics at me for my reading pleasure and pushed me back into the room.

After hours of banging and scratching on the door, I must have weakened their resolve and they tossed the janitor in my room with my MRI results in his hand. He wore grey coveralls with the name “Juan” sewed on to his white nametag. I helped him with some of the words he hadn’t learned yet in his English language class, but all in all we got through the test results with his gaining important new medical terms to practice at home—along with a few heartfelt words I asked him to pass along to the medical staff.

I, on the other hand, got nothing but a bill for an office visit and a door repair bill.

I should write them a letter.

Is writing letters easier if you are a writer?

Reject

For those of you unfamiliar with Miss Snarks First Victim, she is holding another secret agent contest on Monday. The genres she is accepting are Y/A MG  S/F and paranormal romance. If that’s you and you have a completed ms then check it out Sept. Secret Agent.

Also, an update on my July win of secret agent is a very nice rejection. She (the agent) received my partial (50 pages) and one month later she replied with the no-matter-how-nice-it-stings rejection.

For those who didn’t get a link to my entry, here it is. #22 Hiding in the Spotlight

P.S. Anybody out there have any links to character-driven query samples? I actually fantisized the secret agent would love my work and send me a contract (fed X, of course) and thus eliminate the torture of ever having to query. Not so. I sad.

Ask Me has a question

 

Ask Me thanks everyone for their questions and welcomes them anytime. She is open 24/7 for all your inquisitive needs. I will later move Ask Me to her own page for your convenience. Right now she’s taking a nap.

She is grateful that none of the following questions were asked. These are the only things she doesn’t know. She is curious if anyone else knows the answers and, if so, would they please post them here.

 

Can you cry under water?

How important does a person have to be before they are considered assassinated instead of just murdered?

Why do you have to “put your two cents in”… but it’s only a “penny for your thoughts”?  Where’s that extra penny going to?

Once you’re in heaven, do you get stuck wearing the clothes you were buried in for eternity?

Why does a round pizza come in a square box?

What disease did cured ham actually have?

How is it that we put man on the moon before we figured out it would be a good idea to put wheels on luggage?

Why is it that people say they “slept like a baby” when babies wake up like every two hours?

Why do people pay to go up tall buildings and then put money in binoculars to look at things on the ground?

Why do doctors leave the room while you change? They’re going to see you naked anyway.

Why is “bra” singular and “panties” plural?

Why do toasters always have a setting that burns the toast to a horrible crisp, which no decent human being would eat?

If Jimmy cracks corn and no one cares, why is there a stupid song about him?

If the professor on Gilligan’s Island can make a radio out of a coconut, why can’t he fix a hole in a boat?

Why does Goofy stand erect while Pluto remains on all fours? They’re both dogs!

If Wile E. Coyote had enough money to buy all that ACME shit, why didn’t he just buy dinner?

If corn oil is made from corn, and vegetable oil is made from vegetables, what is baby oil made from?

Why is it when you blow in a dog’s face, he gets mad at you, but when you take him for a car ride, he sticks his head out the window?