5 posts tagged “writing”

Last evening while helping my child with their homework I was called to read a re-interpretation of the Creation Story presented in Genesis.  The assignment focused on Adam and Eve’s banishment from the Garden of Eden—a result of both Adam and Eve having eaten fruit of the tree of knowledge.

The interesting thing about this book’s interpretation was that it saw the results of Adam and Eve’s act of eating of the tree of knowledge as bestowing them with not only an awareness of pain, death, and of shame, but a stark awareness of these factors that rendered them so naked and vulnerable as to destroy their ability to interact with divinity face-to-face. For some divinity is truth. For others it is a static or transforming deity governing one’s reality—Christ, Oya, Siva, Yahweh, Allah, The Buddha.

Many artists perceive God in and through the works we create. We interact with divinity when painting, writing, shaping poems or glass we blow into being with our breaths. Whatever the material, our work as artists is both an extension and expression of all that we cannot see, but know and sense present in this life.

The experience of creating is in essence a way, our attempt at touching upon, if not re-entering the Garden of Eden, if only for but a moment as when we give that last touch of color to an acrylic painting on canvas, write the final word of a novel or poem we have revised for the 5oth time, or simply stretch out a note on the piano or cello—take it into the unknown where sound meets with silence, and one absorbs the other.

Whatever our conduit for touching upon this blissful part of life and living that exists through, in and around us—the ultimate reality that bestows meaning upon our lives, we owe it to ourselves to let nothing stand in between our ability to return and sup from the brim of its overflowing cup.

We must remain committed not just to the act of creating that so brings us joy, but also to the truth that emanates through, and about the works of our artistry.  

We must acknowledge the breath of life moving in and out of us engendering the life force that directs our brush, guides our fingers in typing, our hands in writing, our voice in singing.  We must remain honest with ourselves, and follow the lead of our hearts. We must not fall in the search for certainty, and lose grip with its ever-present and evolving beat.

The heart knows what God desires, what we need, what we must create and how to accomplish it.  In our hearts dwells truth--that of the eternity of the ages. It lives in each moment we take a breath.

Today I received an e-mail containing the announcement of a former editor at a New York Publisher, stating that the editor would be reviewing 500 manuscripts for the next 6-8 months.  Those interested could e-mail the editor at the address given in the announcement and receive guidelines.

Curious, and having heard of this up-coming announcement, requested the guidelines.

To my astonishment the guidelines included a $500 fee for reading each manuscript from which the submitting writer would receive a critique of their work.  The purpose of the critique and the fee, ultimately the submission, according to the guidelines is to give the submitting writing a clear sense of how their submission might fare if sent to a publishing house and feedback on where the writer needs to focus her or his attention in refining their submission—again for the larger goal of submitting the work to a publisher for publication.

I was surprised by the $500 fee because for that amount of money an interested person could take a class at say Gotham Writers Workshops or better yet, the would be author could choose from a range of short story and novel courses, all within the price range of $175- $500, classes that last from eight weeks to six months during which the writer submits stories on line to a published and season author of short stories and/or novels and receives not just critique but detailed lessons/lectures and assignments on the craft of writing.

The question was pretty clear to me:  Does one want to pay $500 for feedback given from having read 500 manuscripts or $500 or less for the experience of learning to write?

And the answer to that is also simple:  The latter is the better bargain by far.

I do not hold any ill sentiments toward the former publishing editor for offering such a service.  She has simply joined the ranks of many who already offer this service at much higher fees.

What did strike me as interesting was the great anticipation with which would be writers seeking publication held toward this editor’s announcement.  It was if many saw this as their lucky break.

I can’t exactly criticize these writers eager for publication in their hope of receiving some sort of boost in their career and desire. What left me downhearted was that in the flurry of excitement toward this editor’s announcement, nothing was ever said of why the editor had chosen to commit herself to read 500 manuscripts—better yet what she was looking to gain.

Perhaps this is a mercenary question that I propose.  But seeing one’s work come to print is costly—not only from the publisher’s end, but for the writer as well.  And much of that money must be committed to years, often decades, before a publishing editor will even look at your work. In other words, would be authors must commit to learning how to write and how to improve their writing. And that costs not just time, but also money.

That money can be spent in a myriad of ways, writing groups facilitated by established writers and poets, on-line classes facilitated by those who have made a career in the fields of writing an publishing, writing workshops where one’s work is critiqued over a period of one or two weeks, or MFA programs.  The field is wide open with much to choose from if one wants to truly learn.

But learning involves writing and re-writing—writing stories to present to one’s teacher and peers, and then more writing, after receiving comments and critique to learn how to correct one’s mistakes and refine one’s ability to craft and structure stories.

I received 4 more e-mails after receiving the guidelines from the editor who is to read 500 manuscripts. Those subsequent e-mails contained critiques of various stories.  The authors of these stories went unnamed. The critiques for the novels ranged from comments on dialogue, to suggestions for theme, and critiques on plot.  

The editor, as most in the publishing field who are good at what they do, presented in explicit form just what was not working in the various stories, and what each author needed to attend in revising their story.
Alas, what was not present, was how to amend the suggested challenges—the true stuff of writing--revision--the work that each writer has and at some point must face on the way to the forum of publication--the ability to recognize, foresee, avoid, correct, the pitfalls that plague any and every writer.

That was not included in the critiques. That is what classes teach.

In all my years of writing, to craft my stories and then writing to improve my skills at crafting stories no one ever talked about the amount of writing a published author must do in an effort to publicize her or his works.

Perhaps that is because when I started writing stories, and in the years that followed wherein I labored at refining my skills at crafting fiction, no one, at least not those of us in my writing classes, realized the grasp that the internet would take on our lives, as both consumers, and anyone working to reach consumers.

I began writing seriously twelve years ago, although unbeknownst to me my apprenticeship in the field had actually begun three years prior.

During the years since, we in America have gone from exhibiting a continuum of timidity toward conducting basic social functions of meeting other individuals on-line among the few trailblazers who jumped at the opportunity to conduct various financial matters over the internet, to a society that now lives, breathes, learns and creates and communicates with family and community on-line.  
                                                                      
The internet is what connects us with the world, like it or not, and our dreams, and ourselves.  No reputable businessperson would attempt to sell anything today without first establishing an internet presence. Whenever we hear of someone, whether by word-of-mouth, over the radio or see them on television, we look to the internet for information that legitimizes what we have been told.  No longer do the traditional forms of media, newspapers, television, and magazines satiate our appetites always craving to know the latest on who is who and what is going on about them.

Yet the internet and its assistance to authors, especially fiction writers, is rarely, if ever discussed in writing circles, and little to none in institutions teaching us to refine our skills at creating stories—MFA Programs in Writing and the like. Even the non-traditional, low-residency programs, speak little of it--academic institutions where the use of the internet maintains of the viability and usage of such programs, speak little of this important and vital information we must acquire, better yet, develop a working knowledge of how it intersects with and influences our ability as aspiring writers to sell our product—stories, novels, essays, poems, etc.

Why is this?

I suppose as with any and everyone, change forces us to look at ourselves, and what we are about. More importantly it asks of us who we are, and tests the fiber of our commitment to what it is we say we are about.

The internet puts literary artists to the test. How much are we willing to part with the words we craft and hone into stories and essays, both conveying our thoughts and feelings toward the larger effort of getting our message out to the world? Or did we choose this art form as a way to work out the question of identity at the expense of readers who purchase our books?

The hardest thing about being a writer is making good use of your time.
Time is a writer’s most precious commodity, after imagination—and maybe even before.
For it is in the conservation and consolidation creating an abundance of time, that our imaginations percolate.  

I would imagine this is the way it is for all artists.  Yet for writers there is the added practicality of not only getting the words out and on paper, but the time it takes to write/type them, and then order, arrange and rearrange them.  Following that there is the required dormancy or period of simmering--like with cooking soup having been brought to a boil, and the making of which cannot be rushed.

Poet, Marie Ponsot, a wife and mother now in her eighties, suggests 7 minutes is all a writer needs to place their stamp upon the day. Seven minutes. A wife and mother myself, Ponsot’s words are music to my ears.

Time.

Seven minutes.

Consistency.

Why is it that I’m always looking for the big clumps of time to donate to my writing?

It makes me feel better to say I have worked 3, 4 or 5 hours this day on a certain piece of writing.  That comes from having read article of writers discussing and disseminating their processes of crafting a story wherein they talk of having written up to 18 hours a day at some points.  Perhaps they did.

But that’s not me—at least not now.  

Then there is the question of whether the amount of time one puts into their writing in each sitting is directly equivalent to the quality of the writing created?

Perhaps.

A more overriding concern is—how best to apply one’s time to one’s writing if the goal is to achieve fresh, vibrant and imaginative prose and dialogue that keeps the reader engaged unto the last syllable? What is the worth?

Quality.

I’ve always revered old people, particularly the ones who delved into an art form during their youth or early midlife and brought it to fruition through the decades they have lived--six, seven, eight, even nine for some—and while attending the routine affairs of life like raising children, holding down a nine-to-five job, caring for elderly parents—living life.

There’s something about the time they’ve given, the years, hours and days, they’ve hung in there—committing themselves to not only the development of their artistic skills, but their presence in the flow of life—from which all writing comes.

Life like, writing is not easy.  It flows one day after the next, like the words of a sentence that go on to form paragraphs, chapters and eventually a short story and/or a book.

I here wisdom in Ponsot’s choice of seven minutes--not ten or five—seven.  

Seven in Tarot is the sign of change.

There are also seven days in the week—the time in which God is said to have created the Earth.

This day.

Seven minutes.

Perhaps, one day, a book.

Yesterday, at the suggestion of my internet publicist, I released a book into the wild.  I did it through using the website, bookcrossings.com.  

Basically you register with bookcrossings.com as you would with facebook.com or myspace.com. Once a member you give the title of the book you are going to release, and the name of where you have left it. The site manger configures the actual address according to the information you have given.  

I left a copy of the book I wrote, Keeper of Secrets…Translations of an Incident, in a café in Berkeley.

On leaving the café at 6pm—the internet publicist and I were the last patrons and they were trying to close—the person closing up noticed the book, and asked, “Did one of you leave your book?”

My publicist and I exchanged giddy glances.  In addition to the book I had left a $10 bill in the back flap for the finder to have a cup of coffee or tea and a pastry on me. I included this in the instructions given on bookcrossings.com and in the front of the book where I signed my name.

The publicist remained silent as I disclaimed owning the book.

The café worker, a little puzzled, glanced at the book, as we looked on, I wondering whether the worker would be the person who would become the book’s owner.

Once outside the publicist explained that she had remained silent because months ago she had gone to the counter in the café’ and asked if she could leave with them a copy of another client’s book she was promoting, and they give it to the person—a person who had read on bookcrossings.com about the book being left at the coffee shop—who would come there and ask for it. The person behind the counter had said, “No.” That person had been the worker who had seen us out, asking if one of us had left the copy of my book.

And now she had my book, essentially not knowing I had left it.

She may have later figured out I was the owner of the copy. A color photo of me is in the back flap. That’s also where I left the money.  The publicist said, “She’ll probably take the money,” and leave the book.

This morning I received an e-mail from a member of bookcrossing.com. They were so excited at what I had done, despite stating they probably would get there in time to get the book.  They live outside of Berkeley and weren’t sure they’d be coming in today for Mass as they usually did.

The person added they had researched Keeper of Secrets…Translations of an Incident and felt it to be a thought-provoking read.  The person praised my venture—that I had released something positive into the universe—and considered the $10 an added treat. They wished me blessings on my week ahead.

I would like to have sold a copy of my book.  Isn’t that the name of the game in America?  What I did goes against the grain of all we are taught in the publishing business. Don’t give your writing away.  

But the internet is forcing us to change our ways of doing business.
And I need blessings.  

What to do?

I’ve already spoken with workers at the Starbucks near where I live.  Their manager arrives tomorrow morning at 8:30.  I’ll speak with her about leaving a copy of Keeper of Secrets…Translations of an Incident there too.