Writing's a Dog's Life

While cleaning out my bookshelves I found Peter Mayle's two Provence books  (A Year in Provence, and Toujours Provence) and decided to reread them.  I found them as amusing as before but more importantly I found this remarkable statement*

 "There is the constant doubt that anyone will want to read what you're writing, panic at missing deadlines that  you have imposed on yourself, and the deflating realization that those deadlines couldn't matter less to the rest of the world."

And that is my thought on this beautiful fall day as I sit in my dark office trying to schedule the mess I have gotten myself into.  My usual evasion strategy is to start another project when I become stuck.  This has resulted in having several pieces within a few thousand words of completion and only two months left before my self-imposed deadlines: two new novels**, a novelette/novella, and a short story***

I can hear you scoff: "A thousand words is nothing" or "A day's work at most."  But to me these are very, very important thousand words that will reward the hours a reader will spend on the earlier parts.  This requires careful structure, inspired phrases, and the emotional appeal to the reader's sensitive nature that I constantly fear I cannot, will not, deliver.

Which is why I am going to weed the garden, shop, or play with the cats.  I am going to do this because I suddenly thought of another story I need to write and I need to drive that out of my mind because NaNoMoWri starts tomorrow.

*Remarkable only in that it didn't mean anything to me when I first read it.

**Well, they were new when I started

*** This one has a real deadline

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Imposters

There is a curse among professionals of all sorts and it is called the imposter syndrome.  In its simplest form it is the mistaken belief that someday everyone will discover that you present a false exterior and when that occurs your career and reputation will be lost forever.  I've seen this fear among scientists, managers, and even proclaimed experts.  It is also a curse I have carried my entire professional life.

I recall with fondness the John Clease bit where he explains that incompetent people rarely realize their incompetence.  They do so not because they are stupid but because they fail to understand how superficial is their  depth of understanding. We've clearly see this in many debates and arguments where one party or the other has little appreciation of their opponent's expertise.

The reason for the impostor syndrome is that anyone who has attained a truly high level of competence finally understands how little they know.  The incompetent, on the other hand, believes their partial knowledge is complete and little else remains to be known.  Sometimes in an argument  it is the one with the most doubts about their own expertise who gives way to the intransigent, who often has an unshakable belief in their command of the subject. The incompetent rarely fell doubt about their own certainty.

But where does that leave us who only think they have the imposter syndrome when in fact they really might be imposters? Is there an imposter imposter syndrome as well, like the foolish kid who believes everyone is amused by his antics and doesn't understand the response he gets?

Could I have a double case of imposteritis?


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Cats

I do love my cats - both of them. True, but they'd don't do a lot for me; perhaps one or the other will lay on my lap if none other is available or willing, neither do they enhance my writing by stepping on the keyboard or insisting I let them rub their heads on the corner of  my precariously balanced laptop. Still, that's marginally better than getting an  unexpected head bump while holding a hot cup of coffee or deciding to rub against my leg while I am stair-stepping.

They are in my office at the moment, one holding a paw over her eyes since I refuse to turn  off the desk light while the other lounges on the floor behind a chair rather than in the comfy cat bed I stumble over each morning in my pre-coffee confusion. Soon one of them will leap onto my lap to disrupt whatever chain of thought was inspiring me

I run the equations of our relationship as follows: I empty and clean their litter boxes, sweep  up the litter they insist on kicking out, feed them on a regular schedule, and manage to painfully press their unwilling bodies into the fearful carrying bag for periodic visits to the vet only to see them leap into said bag the instant they are released.  I also provide room and board, turning me into little more than their boarding house servant. In gratitude they ignore me and treat my wife as if she were their dear mother, for God's sake.

Now, let's look at the other side of the equation and what I get in return; they sleep twenty-six hours a day, insist that I get up at an ungodly dark-oh-thirty hour for no discernible reason, and yowl pitifully if I miss their meal times by more than twenty milli-seconds.  Their claws leave indecipherable  graffiti on our leather furniture and produce LOTS of hair, which I find in my food, clothes, and nose.  I often wonder how much cat  hair I will ingest over their lifetimes.

Yet they do offer companionship of a sort -alerting us to invading crickets, flies, and the presence of that damn chipmunk outside (they ignore the squirrels, which I suspect is a case of tail envy.)



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Being the Scene's Hero

With CapClave imminent I  am preparing for the panels I will be on by sketching a few notes. I favor this literary convention because it is so kind to short story writers like me.  That's a big deal since I am seldom recognized at the big cons, not that I am besieged by groupies or anything at CapClave, but I do get to talk comfortably to my peers.

Someone recently interpreted one of my recent blogs to mean that I was becoming a novelist to the detriment of my short stories and implored me not to go that route.  I assume  he thought that there might be a magic switch that converted one's writing impulse from short- to long-form.

Nothing could be further from the truth.  Actually it has taken an act of will to continue plugging away on the two novels I have almost finished ( where have you heard that before?) while demands for short stories land on my desk.  Rather than plunge into those semi-obligations I chose to give them an hour's thought, sketch out rough outlines, and identify where I need to do research before turning my attention back to the Plotland challenge I've been struggling with for the past year.

My take-away on the remark about my blog is that I have finally confirmed proof that I have a FAN!  Who would have guessed?  For years I've been plugging away under a cloud of anonymity, thinking that my editors, who occasionally buy a piece or two, were the only ones who judged my work, and managed to ignore the existence of the readership they served.

Not for me the GoH gigs, the book signings, the free drinks provided by editors and agents, or the coterie of young fans eager to have a morsel of wisdom from my lips.  I am ignored at conventions, have to introduce myself to the program committee, and usually sit alone in the bar to occasionally chat with some better known writer.

But the recent encounter made me realize that maybe most authors feel this way. Sitting alone in a dark room with nothing but a blank screen before you makes you feel that way.  Perhaps I only see the adulation of the moment for others and not the long stretches of disinterest between.  Perhaps we are doomed to "fret and strut our hour upon the stage and then be seen no more"  Such is fate.

But it's nice to know that someone actually likes my stories.


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Reaching the Plotland Pinnacle

I am not sure whether I should feel a sense of exuberance of finally reaching the goal of my Plotland adventure or deal with the exhaustion I feel after slogging through so many, many words. Even though the final version is modest in comparison to many novels (and meagre when compared to most epic fantasy tomes) it nevertheless feels like I've been transporting an enormous weight.

I estimate that I wrote at least four times as many words as made it into the (hopefully) final draft.  Many of these words were scenes later cut as unnecessary, or passages poorly written or plotted, but the majority of lost words were the result of changes wrought by rewriting, rephrasing, and otherwise manipulating the text until it satisfied my standards for what the finished story should look like.  Maintaining a certain style was an element as well, but mostly it was just endlessly dogged rewriting.

I am certain that my short story habits forced me to pay more attention to the impact of each sentence, each phrase, and each turn of the plot.   I am never one to apply needless descriptive ormolu to my passages, instead wishing only to provide the exposition as clearly as possible so that the reader's imagination can paint the picture they wish.  As a result, the completed novel looks pretty tight. 

Anyhow, the writing portion of the journey is now complete, at least for the moment. Now I must change gears, put on my mendicant's garb, and beg the attention of those who determine what gets into print.

I fear this next part of the journey will be the most difficult.

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