Okay, well not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. But as far as the writing goes? Yeah. I let this summer slide right by me. I’m in a particular kind of limbo with Adverse Possession (which I still can’t talk about here. I’m sorry. That sucks. Cryptic blogging isn’t very interesting, is it?) and that limbo (it was an unexpected sort of limbo) kind of knocked me on my ass for most of July. I didn’t touch the new novel at all. I’m not sure I even opened its Word doc. This month I made some halfhearted stabs at it. I opened the file once or twice and wiggled my fingers in the general direction of the keyboard. No writing was done.
Two months. This is the longest I’ve gone without writing in years, including when the kid was born. For the first five years I worked in book publishing, I didn’t write a word. I was young and naive and thought that because I’d studied Literature in college, I would be editing Literature once I took a job at one of the major trade houses. Yeah. Not so much. So it took me five years to shake off that ugly realization of what actually gets published and sells well, etc etc, and once I got over that I settled back down to work. And I worked hard. Damn hard, for nine years since then. Until, well…this summer. This summer has kicked my ass.
(Damn, I just want to tell you what’s going on, but I can’t. Professionalism, blah blah blah.)
Anyway, the kid is napping right now, and I’m sitting at my desk and the natural thing would be to open that Word doc and get back to work. But I can’t make myself do it. I check Facebook. I check the *%*O* Twitter. I check Facebook again, and nope, it still isn’t my turn in any of the Scrabble games I’ve got going on. I check my email, and no one has sent any life-saving, courage-instilling emails in the last five minutes.
If today goes like the past, oh…50 or so, I’ll fritter the whole naptime away with nothing to show for it. Or I could, you know…just fucking get over it and write. Things are weird with Adverse Possession right now. I’d figured out exactly what was supposed to happen with it this summer, and the Universe caught me making plans and counting chickens, and, well…
I just need to get over it.
And so here I go. Back to work on the new book. Right now.
Er… now.
No, now. Here I go.
Wish me luck. I’m terrified.
Why are you reading this comment? Go write! Oh, I guess I ought to, as well…
You’ll make it. Just try hard to put whatever is going on out of your mind and concentrate on the sentences and the words.
Have you noticed that most writers who blog — make that most of the writers who blog that I happen to read — are dealing with the same set of issues? What does that say? About publishing, I mean.
I think it has always been the case, even during publishing’s glory years (which are doubtlessly way behind us now), that quite a lot of what Graham Greene always referred to as “entertainments,” get published, and I have no quarrel with that. Readers should read what they like, and who I am to complain that far too often what most readers like is just trivial, amateurish, mindless, and vague attempts at story-telling. I believe that publishers have kept themselves in business pretty much from the start by printing the book version of made-for-tv movies, even before TV existed.
It does not take much perception to recognize that ignorance abounds in the US (well, everywhere, of course); the proof can be seen in any hour by watching what goes on politically. This population, the bit of it what is capable of reading and then even vaguely inclined toward reading, is the one courted by publishers. Because it is the largest market; a nation of Sarah Palins with the looks or mouth.
I think the difference now is that money is the only goal in publishing books, and publishers will no longer publish books that accountants and salesmen tell them have less than 50/50 chance of making any profit. What used to happen is that capital L Literature was published because most editors read books like that, most editors were educated to understand and appreciate Literary story-telling, and they could live with the fact that most of what they allowed into print was pretty crappy, as long as the crap made enough money to print a few really fine books. Those days are gone.
To be unable to sell what everyone will admit (and I feel confident this applies to you) is a fine novel can be seen as a backwards compliment; if it was just some shit TV plotted thing with most of the words spelled correctly, you’d be juggling offers of big advances.
These days you can write well or you can sell well, the days when authors could do both are fading fast. That is the fateful result of market driven decision-making.
I am sure you will keep writing because you have already shown by your work that it’s what you do. That’s what we all do, often in spite of ourselves.
I suggest that you keep working. Because you will anyway.
Good luck in your search to find one of the last gasp dying-out Literary publishers … and don’t bother wasting your time with any publisher owned by a German media giant (which will eliminate virtually everyone you’ve ever heard of).
I typed that awfully fast, pardon the typos, especially Sarah Palins WITHOUT the looks or mouth.
Go get ’em, sweetie. For the record, on my run today, someone ran in front of me with the phrase “Quit Your Job” on the back of his shirt. Made me think of where I’m going and what I’m doing with writing, which at the moment equals nothing. And nothing is not the yard in which I wish to hang. You can do it!
Wishing you good luck! I am sure your hard work will pay off.
Terrifying is GOOD. That means you are ready, honey.
We were just having the art meets commerce conversation in our house. None of the world’s problems were resolved.
ohfergodssakes. you are a great writer. you know that. you do. Wanna take some time off? Do it. But out here in the world, we’re waiting. for you.
no pressure.
I am not nearly the writer you are and I do find the hardest part is keeping the appointment with the work. So much better to have written than to be writing.
I am so. with. you.
I resorted to attempting to read the type of books described by Donigan (#3) this summer. I’m wondering if there even was an editor? And who is sustained on this stuff? I don’t understand. I could feel my brain cells throwing fits of righteous anger against the mistakes in grammar, story and plot as they died.
It’s terrifying me back to my keyboard. From there, well, who knows?
Hey, happy belated birthday! That’s hardly a life-saving sentiment, but I’m thinking about you and wishing you well.
I think Facebook and Twitter signal the beginning of the Apocalypse. They (and things like them) ruin the forward movement and concentration of every formerly productive member of society who flirts with them. This is truly how I feel, but I can’t help laughing at myself and am now wondering if I’m sounding like I should be on a conservative talk show now. Perhaps I should just lie down and die. Heeheeee.
I’m still optimistic, both for writers in general, and for you. The music world was on life support, having been sucked dry of anything resembling originality, when avenues such as Myspace, CD Baby and Youtube came along. Bands were able to market themselves and connect directly with listeners and didn’t have to fit into some bland, rigid corporate radio format to make a living. Publishing isn’t quite there, but the infrastructure is definitely in place.
I started reading a new library book recently and had to abandon it about 20 pages in when I read “then she petted the kitchen.” Good heavens, not only was it poorly written, it was edited by a moron. Keep writing and we will find you, come heck or high water or crappy publishers.
You can do it! Rooting for you…