Showing posts with label Author Blogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Author Blogs. Show all posts
Basu Blogs
Writing about writing is too meta for me. Writers have been writing about writing forever, of course – it’s the ultimate in the “write what you know” school of writing (let’s see how many times I can, um, write this word in this missive) but it’s not one I subscribe to. Some of this kind of meta works: Doug Coupland’s The Gum Thief is a good example of an entertaining book about a writer writing a book. That Coupland also satirizes the process and the result in the same book – in a kind of book within a book (which means he has a writer writing about writing writing about writing) – probably enhanced the novel for me: I knew he was having fun poking fun at himself.
OK, enough with these elliptical sentences.
My book, Squishy, comes out soon. Next week hopefully. I say hopefully to acknowledge the vagaries of small press publishing and because it is a fervent wish: the book’s still at the printer. The book has no stories about writers writing. It has stories about would-be starlets and everyday people caught up with their own humiliations (meaning they could have been writers, I suppose – who knows humiliation more intimately than a writer, after all?). There are a lot of office folk in the book. So in this sense, I’m in the “write what you know” school.
My day so far: looking after my son after he had sprained his ankle. Walking to work – and as I write this I am once again thankful that I can say I walk to work. It’s a 10-minute walk. Lucky me. And then a meeting. With about 18 people. A short meeting but a meeting nonetheless. Is there anyone in the world who enjoys meetings? I think one of my characters asks that question in the book.
Squishy is a collection of 14 short stories. Some are set in Montreal (where I live); one is set in New York. One in LA. One in India. The rest are kind of placeless though if you read carefully enough, they are probably set in Montreal. One contains a rant about the highway between Toronto and Montreal, one of the world’s most boring expanses of asphalt.
Over the next two days, I’m going to be updating this blog – hey, look Ma, I’m blogging! – but a big theme, I can tell, will be this: anticipation. My book is launching on May 4 at Montreal’s Blue Met Literary Festival. And then there’s a reading with other Fiery First Fiction writers at the great Casa del Popolo on The Main just south of St. Joseph on May 5. I can’t wait to get this book out there. But first, I’d just settle for getting the darned thing in my hands. And then I’ll know it’s real.
OK, enough with these elliptical sentences.
My book, Squishy, comes out soon. Next week hopefully. I say hopefully to acknowledge the vagaries of small press publishing and because it is a fervent wish: the book’s still at the printer. The book has no stories about writers writing. It has stories about would-be starlets and everyday people caught up with their own humiliations (meaning they could have been writers, I suppose – who knows humiliation more intimately than a writer, after all?). There are a lot of office folk in the book. So in this sense, I’m in the “write what you know” school.
My day so far: looking after my son after he had sprained his ankle. Walking to work – and as I write this I am once again thankful that I can say I walk to work. It’s a 10-minute walk. Lucky me. And then a meeting. With about 18 people. A short meeting but a meeting nonetheless. Is there anyone in the world who enjoys meetings? I think one of my characters asks that question in the book.
Squishy is a collection of 14 short stories. Some are set in Montreal (where I live); one is set in New York. One in LA. One in India. The rest are kind of placeless though if you read carefully enough, they are probably set in Montreal. One contains a rant about the highway between Toronto and Montreal, one of the world’s most boring expanses of asphalt.
Over the next two days, I’m going to be updating this blog – hey, look Ma, I’m blogging! – but a big theme, I can tell, will be this: anticipation. My book is launching on May 4 at Montreal’s Blue Met Literary Festival. And then there’s a reading with other Fiery First Fiction writers at the great Casa del Popolo on The Main just south of St. Joseph on May 5. I can’t wait to get this book out there. But first, I’d just settle for getting the darned thing in my hands. And then I’ll know it’s real.
deMeulles Blogs - Who’s telling the story anyways?
There’s a school of critical thought that insists that the writer is the teller of the story, that the author speaks directly to the reader through the story. Richard Kearney, the Irish philosopher and critic, defines narrative as somebody saying something to somebody about something. I believe this to be true, that the author is speaking to the reader through the story. However, I would add to this that the author is not the teller of the tale; that the teller mediates between the reader and the author.
Let me elaborate. I view the writer and the teller of the tale as two different persons. I remember coming to this realization back in my mid twenties when I was reading Henry Miller. I’d always assumed that the narrator in the books was Miller, but then one day I heard him talking about his first person narrator as a created character. From that point on I began shaping my personal view on the relationship between writer and story.
Rather than speaking generally about writing, let me personalize my view by saying that all my stories have a teller who is someone other than me. Each of my stories is seen through the eyes of a teller who is unique to that story. By “eyes” I am talking about the physical perspective, but I also refer to a consciousness through which the story is filtered. The teller of the tale knows the story as a result of some form of personal experience: he has lived a part of it, or heard of it or has been affected by it. But how could he have lived it if it is fictive? And who would he have heard it from if not from fictive characters who populate the story? That means that the narrator — the teller — that I am referring to is, himself, fictive.
This sounds like beer talk. Let me explain how it works with specific reference to my writing. When I start thinking about a new story it’s a result of having gotten a hunch about something; that is, I feel a story brewing. What I do then is try to get a feel for what this nascent story is about and who it is happening to. This all happens in my head. But I find that I still can start the writing of it unless I know who the teller is, how well he knows the story, and what sort of take he has on it. I’d have to say the teller is probably the first character I get to know because it is through his eyes that I get to see the story.
What I am saying is that I don’t sit down to write some story I’ve already got in my head. I see a vague image of something and need to get a clearer view of it. But I cant get to know it first hand because it is all fictive, doesn’t exist. Therefore I need someone who lives in this fictive existence to help me see the story. I need this other set of eyes. These are the eyes of the teller. As I get to know who this teller is, I come to see his relationship to the story. As I come to understand this, I come to see what the story is about, who it affects and how it might unfold.
You could say I construct the teller as if he were another character; but the spooky thing about the fictive character is that he has a foot in the fictive world of the story and a foot in my world. As such he is able to mediate between me and the story. And also mediate between the reader and the story.
Sometimes, I chose to make this teller of the tale obvious — a character as obviously fictive as Augie March or Huck Finn. Other times I don’t give him a name, and leave his personality undefined by any self-consciousness on his part. In these instances the teller is almost invisible. Nevertheless, he’s always there. Like Waldo, you’ve got to look for him.
Now, when I read a story I always try to get to know the fictive teller. And I feel by doing that I enter more deeply into the fictive world that exists between the front and back covers.
Let me elaborate. I view the writer and the teller of the tale as two different persons. I remember coming to this realization back in my mid twenties when I was reading Henry Miller. I’d always assumed that the narrator in the books was Miller, but then one day I heard him talking about his first person narrator as a created character. From that point on I began shaping my personal view on the relationship between writer and story.
Rather than speaking generally about writing, let me personalize my view by saying that all my stories have a teller who is someone other than me. Each of my stories is seen through the eyes of a teller who is unique to that story. By “eyes” I am talking about the physical perspective, but I also refer to a consciousness through which the story is filtered. The teller of the tale knows the story as a result of some form of personal experience: he has lived a part of it, or heard of it or has been affected by it. But how could he have lived it if it is fictive? And who would he have heard it from if not from fictive characters who populate the story? That means that the narrator — the teller — that I am referring to is, himself, fictive.
This sounds like beer talk. Let me explain how it works with specific reference to my writing. When I start thinking about a new story it’s a result of having gotten a hunch about something; that is, I feel a story brewing. What I do then is try to get a feel for what this nascent story is about and who it is happening to. This all happens in my head. But I find that I still can start the writing of it unless I know who the teller is, how well he knows the story, and what sort of take he has on it. I’d have to say the teller is probably the first character I get to know because it is through his eyes that I get to see the story.
What I am saying is that I don’t sit down to write some story I’ve already got in my head. I see a vague image of something and need to get a clearer view of it. But I cant get to know it first hand because it is all fictive, doesn’t exist. Therefore I need someone who lives in this fictive existence to help me see the story. I need this other set of eyes. These are the eyes of the teller. As I get to know who this teller is, I come to see his relationship to the story. As I come to understand this, I come to see what the story is about, who it affects and how it might unfold.
You could say I construct the teller as if he were another character; but the spooky thing about the fictive character is that he has a foot in the fictive world of the story and a foot in my world. As such he is able to mediate between me and the story. And also mediate between the reader and the story.
Sometimes, I chose to make this teller of the tale obvious — a character as obviously fictive as Augie March or Huck Finn. Other times I don’t give him a name, and leave his personality undefined by any self-consciousness on his part. In these instances the teller is almost invisible. Nevertheless, he’s always there. Like Waldo, you’ve got to look for him.
Now, when I read a story I always try to get to know the fictive teller. And I feel by doing that I enter more deeply into the fictive world that exists between the front and back covers.
Basu Blogs
What passes for information? Today I’ve Googled “London train stations,” “Bombay train stations,” (no, I’m not writing about trains, but am researching “transport hubs”) “karate,” “Rocky and Bullwinkle,” “the Stans” (as in the countries of central Asia) and “plastic.” These are the Googles I remember. I’m sure I’ve searched for more today.
I learned today that my son has an ankle sprain. He’s on crutches for a few days, delaying the start of his soccer season tomorrow. Last year, I shredded my ankle, tearing all the ligaments, and went from crutches to what I called an “ankle bra” and then a thick sock. When the accident occurred, the pain was absolutely tremendous, the kind of pain that makes one hallucinate and recoil and ill. Seeing my son’s little sprained ankle brought all that back to me. I can feel a twinge in my ankle right now. Information.
There’s a passage in one of my stories: Ignorance may be bliss but it sure isn’t fun. That’s the character talking. I think ignorance in this day and age is kind of interesting. It’s almost a luxury. Yes, ignorance can lead to awful, hurtful things. Don’t get me wrong. But I kind of like the thought of not knowing. We live in information overload. Not knowing is an idea with a certain appeal.
When I was writing my book, and I suppose this is true of all writers, the blank pages in my notepad were pages of possibility, pages of potential, scrims of ignorance waiting for the information. The Information. After the day I’ve spent, in meetings (I had three long meetings today), working, Googling “London train stations,” not knowing is bourbon at the end of a long day. I’m a big fan of bourbon.
I learned today that my son has an ankle sprain. He’s on crutches for a few days, delaying the start of his soccer season tomorrow. Last year, I shredded my ankle, tearing all the ligaments, and went from crutches to what I called an “ankle bra” and then a thick sock. When the accident occurred, the pain was absolutely tremendous, the kind of pain that makes one hallucinate and recoil and ill. Seeing my son’s little sprained ankle brought all that back to me. I can feel a twinge in my ankle right now. Information.
There’s a passage in one of my stories: Ignorance may be bliss but it sure isn’t fun. That’s the character talking. I think ignorance in this day and age is kind of interesting. It’s almost a luxury. Yes, ignorance can lead to awful, hurtful things. Don’t get me wrong. But I kind of like the thought of not knowing. We live in information overload. Not knowing is an idea with a certain appeal.
When I was writing my book, and I suppose this is true of all writers, the blank pages in my notepad were pages of possibility, pages of potential, scrims of ignorance waiting for the information. The Information. After the day I’ve spent, in meetings (I had three long meetings today), working, Googling “London train stations,” not knowing is bourbon at the end of a long day. I’m a big fan of bourbon.
Lapeña Blogs - #1
To pick up on something Tricia said about when those books first arrive, and being afraid of typos… I know what you mean! You proof it, your people proof it, and you think it must be perfect, and I’m here to tell you, it probably isn’t. But that’s ok, because probably all books have the odd typo, and it doesn’t wreck the book. Unless it’s something like “pubic” instead of “public”. Actually, I have a few editor friends, and one told me a funny story about mixing it up the other way—it was a book about puberty and the typo was “public” for “pubic,” so there you go. One of those copyediting friends found a couple of typos in my book, and yes, part of the reason I’d love to go into reprints is to fix those typos!
One funny thing that happened when my books arrived—a very exciting moment, savour it!—was that my six-year-old daughter picked out the first one, saw the dedication page (it was dedicated to my husband) and pulled out book after book, checking them all and bursting into tears because none of them were dedicated to her! You can probably imagine to whom I will dedicate my next book.
And yes, it’s unsettling at first, to see your words go out and actually get read. Especially if you don’t have a history of publishing short stories, which I don’t, so you don’t have the chance to get used to it gradually. You work for years and then you send out your book and it’s a bit like opening your raincoat to strangers when you’re buck naked underneath. And then you get used to it, and if the response to the book is good, you kind of get to like it, and find you actually want to open your raincoat to strangers…
Of course, we all Google ourselves all the time, it’s like an illness. There should be a name for it. Why don’t we think of one? Authorgooglitis? Obsessive Compulsive Googling Disorder? Wait till you start tracking your numbers on Amazon…that way madness lies.
One funny thing that happened when my books arrived—a very exciting moment, savour it!—was that my six-year-old daughter picked out the first one, saw the dedication page (it was dedicated to my husband) and pulled out book after book, checking them all and bursting into tears because none of them were dedicated to her! You can probably imagine to whom I will dedicate my next book.
And yes, it’s unsettling at first, to see your words go out and actually get read. Especially if you don’t have a history of publishing short stories, which I don’t, so you don’t have the chance to get used to it gradually. You work for years and then you send out your book and it’s a bit like opening your raincoat to strangers when you’re buck naked underneath. And then you get used to it, and if the response to the book is good, you kind of get to like it, and find you actually want to open your raincoat to strangers…
Of course, we all Google ourselves all the time, it’s like an illness. There should be a name for it. Why don’t we think of one? Authorgooglitis? Obsessive Compulsive Googling Disorder? Wait till you start tracking your numbers on Amazon…that way madness lies.
Dower Blogs - FFF Anxiety Log Entry 1
I’m embarrassingly old to be having a first book. Like a long-barren woman who miraculously conceives, stretch marks triumphantly claiming her dry, wrinkled skin.
When I started writing fiction six years ago and workshopping stories online, I closely guarded my age. No anecdotes about adorable grandkids in chat rooms. I didn’t want younger writers dismissing my work out of hand. It took time for me to trust them, to feel comfortable slipping in the odd reference to the ‘50s and ‘60s. I needed the anonymity of the ‘Net to gradually unveil first my writing and then myself.
That’s all about to change with the publication of Silent Girl. I’m scheduled for five readings, possibly seven, in May. Readings that – oh no – strangers will attend. Strangers who might speculate about the black hole of those years leading up to this one and wonder why I couldn’t get a book published before now.
Our culture celebrates youth. CNN has a blog called Young People Who Rock—interviews with people under 30. Granta publishes a list of the 21 Best Writers Under 35. And then there’s the 30 Under 30 Awards for journalism and the worldwide Young President’s Organization. The pressure is on to “make it” as early as possible. A talented woman who’s dear to me said she didn’t want to celebrate her recent 38th birthday because she hadn’t “done enough.”
“Are you sorry you didn’t start writing when you were younger?” my daughter asked.
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t have had those stories in me then.” It’s true. I wouldn’t have understood at any but a surface level the oppression and drive for freedom I give words to in Silent Girl. Besides, I seemed to have needed to get other things out of the way first: Getting married and birthing children. Divorcing and marrying again, divorcing and marrying again. Breaking through the corporate glass ceiling. Proving whatever it was I had to prove to myself.
A well-known Vancouver author wrote to me recently, “It's better to start publishing with a little less dew on the on the petals. You've got something real to say now.”
I sure hope that’s true.
When I started writing fiction six years ago and workshopping stories online, I closely guarded my age. No anecdotes about adorable grandkids in chat rooms. I didn’t want younger writers dismissing my work out of hand. It took time for me to trust them, to feel comfortable slipping in the odd reference to the ‘50s and ‘60s. I needed the anonymity of the ‘Net to gradually unveil first my writing and then myself.
That’s all about to change with the publication of Silent Girl. I’m scheduled for five readings, possibly seven, in May. Readings that – oh no – strangers will attend. Strangers who might speculate about the black hole of those years leading up to this one and wonder why I couldn’t get a book published before now.
Our culture celebrates youth. CNN has a blog called Young People Who Rock—interviews with people under 30. Granta publishes a list of the 21 Best Writers Under 35. And then there’s the 30 Under 30 Awards for journalism and the worldwide Young President’s Organization. The pressure is on to “make it” as early as possible. A talented woman who’s dear to me said she didn’t want to celebrate her recent 38th birthday because she hadn’t “done enough.”
“Are you sorry you didn’t start writing when you were younger?” my daughter asked.
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t have had those stories in me then.” It’s true. I wouldn’t have understood at any but a surface level the oppression and drive for freedom I give words to in Silent Girl. Besides, I seemed to have needed to get other things out of the way first: Getting married and birthing children. Divorcing and marrying again, divorcing and marrying again. Breaking through the corporate glass ceiling. Proving whatever it was I had to prove to myself.
A well-known Vancouver author wrote to me recently, “It's better to start publishing with a little less dew on the on the petals. You've got something real to say now.”
I sure hope that’s true.
Brink & Westergard Blog - #1
JIM WESTERGARD
In 2005, during a conversation with Jason Brink, he asked if I would consider working with him on an idea for a book he had been developing. He had seen some of my wood engravings of insects and he had been thinking of writing a series of extremely short stories, centered around the phrase “wouldn’t you like to be a fly on the wall during that conversation?” I liked the idea immediately and was on board before seeing the first story. A few days later I had three or four of Jason’s Fly on the Wall stories to read and couldn’t wait to start on some drawings. His stories were charged with visual stimuli.
A book takes a circuitous and complicated route as it is born. My first book, Mother Goose Eggs, sunnyside up, took four years to finish. It was a self-printed (letterpress) and self-published book (later published in soft cover by Porcupine Quill Press). The four-year birthing of that book was the result of having to learn type-setting and book design “on the job” and there was a point prior to binding when I decided to redesign and reprint the book, to get it right.
Jason sent “Fly” stories to me by e-mail. If I had some issues or concerns about a story I would send a message back or call on the phone and sometimes we would agree the story should be re-written. I would work on a sketch or two or three and scan them and send them to him. A similar discussion on email or phone would follow until the sketch worked for both of us. Then I would do the pen and ink drawing. There were also times when the finished drawing just did not work and needed to be re-drawn. There was a point where the supply of stories slowed, so to keep the ball moving I did a drawing and sent it to Jason. He either wrote a story, motivated by the drawing (example: Church Council which I created visualizing a court scene), or said he just couldn't come up with something (example: a drawing of a fly on an ornately framed painting in a museum), or the drawing didn't fit the tenor of the other stories (example: Jurassic Fly which depicts a fly on a dinosaur's eyelid). There were, I think, about 6 or 8 drawings, which spawned stories.
In 2005, during a conversation with Jason Brink, he asked if I would consider working with him on an idea for a book he had been developing. He had seen some of my wood engravings of insects and he had been thinking of writing a series of extremely short stories, centered around the phrase “wouldn’t you like to be a fly on the wall during that conversation?” I liked the idea immediately and was on board before seeing the first story. A few days later I had three or four of Jason’s Fly on the Wall stories to read and couldn’t wait to start on some drawings. His stories were charged with visual stimuli.
A book takes a circuitous and complicated route as it is born. My first book, Mother Goose Eggs, sunnyside up, took four years to finish. It was a self-printed (letterpress) and self-published book (later published in soft cover by Porcupine Quill Press). The four-year birthing of that book was the result of having to learn type-setting and book design “on the job” and there was a point prior to binding when I decided to redesign and reprint the book, to get it right.
Jason sent “Fly” stories to me by e-mail. If I had some issues or concerns about a story I would send a message back or call on the phone and sometimes we would agree the story should be re-written. I would work on a sketch or two or three and scan them and send them to him. A similar discussion on email or phone would follow until the sketch worked for both of us. Then I would do the pen and ink drawing. There were also times when the finished drawing just did not work and needed to be re-drawn. There was a point where the supply of stories slowed, so to keep the ball moving I did a drawing and sent it to Jason. He either wrote a story, motivated by the drawing (example: Church Council which I created visualizing a court scene), or said he just couldn't come up with something (example: a drawing of a fly on an ornately framed painting in a museum), or the drawing didn't fit the tenor of the other stories (example: Jurassic Fly which depicts a fly on a dinosaur's eyelid). There were, I think, about 6 or 8 drawings, which spawned stories.
Brink & Westergard Blog - #2
JASON BRINK
I love the quote I’m about to bastardize, and I have no idea who said it, but hopefully somebody else might and I can give credit where credit is due. “Writing is easy. You just sit in front of a blank page until your forehead bleeds.”
When I went through the Creative Writing program at Uvic, a great writer and fiction prof of mine, Bill Valgardson, would start each writing class with what he called his “daily affirmations”. I’ll stop using quotes after this, I promise. One of the most memorable of his daily affirmations, perhaps because it did not resonate with me at all, was: “Writing is easy and fun for me.” I know, I know – another quote. I lied. I’m a writer. Get used to it.
I guess the idea was that we could speak these affirmations to ourselves each morning while we brushed our teeth, or at our desks as we dabbed the blood from our foreheads with said blank pages, to stay positive, focused and survive the inherent challenges in being writers. The truth is, writing is NOT easy and fun for me. I wish it was, and I know it is for some, but for me, writing is the hardest thing I do, and in terms of fun it ranks somewhere below scraping burnt cheese off a casserole dish and passing a kidney stone.
For me, the fun part of writing are those initial flashes of unadulterated brilliance that formulate in my brain and then inevitably get lost in translation when I try and convert them into words. I suspect most writers are better at this conversion than I am, and perhaps with practice and more daily affirmations I’ll better develop this skillful art, but for now, I’m most enjoying this time after the writing is done. This is easy and fun for me. People buying me drinks, others trying creative ways to finagle free books from me, me practicing my author signature before signings and trying to think of cool boiler plate inscriptions I can write for people I don’t know who might actually buy the book. All of this is gravy, and I wish I could milk it forever. But I know I’m already approaching minute fifteen and that an actual career in this masochistic field requires a plethora of blood-soaked blank pages, so as a means of coping, I’ve made a slightly modified affirmation for myself that I’m happy to share with any other writer who may benefit from it: “Writing is hard and painful for me…but I’m still gonna do it.” And I will.
I love the quote I’m about to bastardize, and I have no idea who said it, but hopefully somebody else might and I can give credit where credit is due. “Writing is easy. You just sit in front of a blank page until your forehead bleeds.”
When I went through the Creative Writing program at Uvic, a great writer and fiction prof of mine, Bill Valgardson, would start each writing class with what he called his “daily affirmations”. I’ll stop using quotes after this, I promise. One of the most memorable of his daily affirmations, perhaps because it did not resonate with me at all, was: “Writing is easy and fun for me.” I know, I know – another quote. I lied. I’m a writer. Get used to it.
I guess the idea was that we could speak these affirmations to ourselves each morning while we brushed our teeth, or at our desks as we dabbed the blood from our foreheads with said blank pages, to stay positive, focused and survive the inherent challenges in being writers. The truth is, writing is NOT easy and fun for me. I wish it was, and I know it is for some, but for me, writing is the hardest thing I do, and in terms of fun it ranks somewhere below scraping burnt cheese off a casserole dish and passing a kidney stone.
For me, the fun part of writing are those initial flashes of unadulterated brilliance that formulate in my brain and then inevitably get lost in translation when I try and convert them into words. I suspect most writers are better at this conversion than I am, and perhaps with practice and more daily affirmations I’ll better develop this skillful art, but for now, I’m most enjoying this time after the writing is done. This is easy and fun for me. People buying me drinks, others trying creative ways to finagle free books from me, me practicing my author signature before signings and trying to think of cool boiler plate inscriptions I can write for people I don’t know who might actually buy the book. All of this is gravy, and I wish I could milk it forever. But I know I’m already approaching minute fifteen and that an actual career in this masochistic field requires a plethora of blood-soaked blank pages, so as a means of coping, I’ve made a slightly modified affirmation for myself that I’m happy to share with any other writer who may benefit from it: “Writing is hard and painful for me…but I’m still gonna do it.” And I will.
Lapeña Blogs - #2
This is probably a bit presumptuous of me, but here goes—what I’ve learned about book publishing so far, or, my advice for new writers:
Be persistent. Be realistic. Publishing a book probably isn’t going to change your life, but it can be very satisfying. I remember hearing Helen Humphreys say once, that you just keep reaching a higher level of rejection, and I think there’s a lot of truth to that. You think you’ve got it made when you get an agent, because it’s so difficult to get an agent, but then, it’s even harder to get a publisher, and then it’s even harder to get the book buyer’s attention in the book store, and to get the attention of the reviewers and so on. These are very hard times for writers, I think.
I remember one of the more memorable rejections I’ve ever had—it was something like, “Thank you, but we’ve gone bankrupt.”
Also, growing up in a dysfunctional family is good preparation for a novelist.
Be persistent. Be realistic. Publishing a book probably isn’t going to change your life, but it can be very satisfying. I remember hearing Helen Humphreys say once, that you just keep reaching a higher level of rejection, and I think there’s a lot of truth to that. You think you’ve got it made when you get an agent, because it’s so difficult to get an agent, but then, it’s even harder to get a publisher, and then it’s even harder to get the book buyer’s attention in the book store, and to get the attention of the reviewers and so on. These are very hard times for writers, I think.
I remember one of the more memorable rejections I’ve ever had—it was something like, “Thank you, but we’ve gone bankrupt.”
Also, growing up in a dysfunctional family is good preparation for a novelist.
Dower Blogs - FFF Anxiety Log Entry 2
What if I missed a typo? I proofread those galleys so thoroughly I can recite most of the stories by heart. My husband proofread them. The editor proofed them and hired a professional reader, too. All of us found different things. Is that good or bad?
What if I spot an error when my copies of the book arrive this week? Will it be like finding a cigarette burn on a new table or a wine stain on a favourite sweater? Will the book feel ruined to me?
What if other people find a typo and don’t tell me? I still recall the error I found nearly thirty years ago while a communications flak for an insurance company. The woman who edited the policyholder magazine was meticulous about proofreading. She had just dropped the latest issue off at my desk when I let out a little, involuntary gasp.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Tell me!”
She’d reprinted the words to the Simon and Garfunkel song “Old Friends” on the cover. Except it read “Old Fiends.” She never forgave me for spotting that. In a meeting later that week she referred to me as “Miss Eagle Eye in her prison suit.” (I thought that navy pinstripe number of mine was quite smart.)
A friend who just learned her book is going into second printing is happier about being able to correct typos than she is about the brisk sales. I can relate.
What if I spot an error when my copies of the book arrive this week? Will it be like finding a cigarette burn on a new table or a wine stain on a favourite sweater? Will the book feel ruined to me?
What if other people find a typo and don’t tell me? I still recall the error I found nearly thirty years ago while a communications flak for an insurance company. The woman who edited the policyholder magazine was meticulous about proofreading. She had just dropped the latest issue off at my desk when I let out a little, involuntary gasp.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Tell me!”
She’d reprinted the words to the Simon and Garfunkel song “Old Friends” on the cover. Except it read “Old Fiends.” She never forgave me for spotting that. In a meeting later that week she referred to me as “Miss Eagle Eye in her prison suit.” (I thought that navy pinstripe number of mine was quite smart.)
A friend who just learned her book is going into second printing is happier about being able to correct typos than she is about the brisk sales. I can relate.
Basu Blogs
You create words and you put them together and you hope they mean something. You hope they sound good together. You hope one word leads to the next and that one sentence leads to the next and that the end result of all these words is something that changes things if only a little. You hope that the reader reads these strings of words and comes out of the experience changed. You hope these words tells the reader something about what it means to be alive.
That’s the hope.
So when Squishy gets published soon, that’s what I hope. I hope I have connected with the reader reading words I’ve put together and that this connection changes the reader in somehow, however slight that change may be.
It’s been a long road. Not as long as my novel (not published, but kind of looking for a publisher) but long, with lots of hard work, lonely moments. I learned things. About myself. About the world. About others. Writing a book is a profound thing, an act of creation that seems completely silly when you stop to think about it. The arrogance of the writer!
No one writes because they want to but because they have to. It’s an itch you have to scratch. Well, I scratched. And that in itself is satisfying. That I managed to publish a book out of that scratch seems like a bonus. Though the real bonus, I think, comes from the connection. From that one reader who comes up to you and says….well, I guess I’ll find out.
That’s the hope.
So when Squishy gets published soon, that’s what I hope. I hope I have connected with the reader reading words I’ve put together and that this connection changes the reader in somehow, however slight that change may be.
It’s been a long road. Not as long as my novel (not published, but kind of looking for a publisher) but long, with lots of hard work, lonely moments. I learned things. About myself. About the world. About others. Writing a book is a profound thing, an act of creation that seems completely silly when you stop to think about it. The arrogance of the writer!
No one writes because they want to but because they have to. It’s an itch you have to scratch. Well, I scratched. And that in itself is satisfying. That I managed to publish a book out of that scratch seems like a bonus. Though the real bonus, I think, comes from the connection. From that one reader who comes up to you and says….well, I guess I’ll find out.
Basu Blogs
7“One is the loneliest number,” the song goes. True, I guess (though you could argue that zero is the loneliest number but that’s another topic). How about “writer is the loneliest profession.” Which is what makes the upcoming launch of my book something that fills me with excitement, dread, trepidation. Even a little awe. Being a first book, I feel like a deb before the ball. Suddenly, you’re not so alone. Suddenly, you’re up on stage sharing your work with people. Reviews are written. Emails come from long lost friends. At this point, writing doesn’t become so lonely again. And then…you’re back at your desk, with a blank piece of paper staring you in the face, and you’re alone. Again.
I suppose some people like the serenity of the process. Having spent most of my working life in an office, in places where collaboration is necessary (I used to work at a children’s press and then I started working at enRoute magazine, where I was editor in chief from 2001 to 2007), where all the output is a group effort, the aloneness of writing is strange. It makes a hard job even harder. It’s necessary of course. Before I sit down to tackle more fiction, maybe I should get a dog. Or at least think about it. Though a dog is probably an excuse to ignore your work.
I’m easily distracted.
I suppose some people like the serenity of the process. Having spent most of my working life in an office, in places where collaboration is necessary (I used to work at a children’s press and then I started working at enRoute magazine, where I was editor in chief from 2001 to 2007), where all the output is a group effort, the aloneness of writing is strange. It makes a hard job even harder. It’s necessary of course. Before I sit down to tackle more fiction, maybe I should get a dog. Or at least think about it. Though a dog is probably an excuse to ignore your work.
I’m easily distracted.
Dower Blogs - FFF Anxiety Log Entry 3
I got my first review a few weeks ago. Discovered it quite by accident while googling my name. (C’mon, admit it. You google yours, too.) My body went all jangly when I saw it up on the screen. My baby suddenly was “out there,” exposed to the judgment of others who will “scrutinize your literary soul,” as a writer friend put it.
The review was positive and especially gratifying because the reviewer said my stories caused her to reflect on what could be done about specific social issues affecting women. One friend thought the review focused too much on those issues and not enough on the writing. Another said it didn’t acknowledge that some characters resisted patriarchal forces “with courage and intelligence.”
Their comments led to an “aha” moment for me: people were now discussing my stories as if they existed apart from me. I felt a little panicky. As though I’d turned my head for a moment and let my toddler run into a busy street. I hadn’t given much thought before that to how it would feel when my characters were released into a wider world, no longer to be interpreted and defended by me.
I did have an earlier taste of it, though, when my son read one of the stories in the collection. “I love the way you get us to feel sorry for Kyal at first,” he said, “but then make us see she has to make the decision she does for the sake of her people.”
“I do?” I said. I hadn’t meant to.
I asked if he thought Kyal would get to achieve her ambitions after the story ended. He said No, but that it was okay. When he explained why it was okay with him, I saw that my son, a proud former Marine, had read the story through the lens of Duty. To sacrifice individual wants for the greater good is the logical, moral choice for him. It made me realize that other readers will be reading through their own lenses, some of them quite different from mine.
It’s kind of scary but also kind of wonderful.
The review was positive and especially gratifying because the reviewer said my stories caused her to reflect on what could be done about specific social issues affecting women. One friend thought the review focused too much on those issues and not enough on the writing. Another said it didn’t acknowledge that some characters resisted patriarchal forces “with courage and intelligence.”
Their comments led to an “aha” moment for me: people were now discussing my stories as if they existed apart from me. I felt a little panicky. As though I’d turned my head for a moment and let my toddler run into a busy street. I hadn’t given much thought before that to how it would feel when my characters were released into a wider world, no longer to be interpreted and defended by me.
I did have an earlier taste of it, though, when my son read one of the stories in the collection. “I love the way you get us to feel sorry for Kyal at first,” he said, “but then make us see she has to make the decision she does for the sake of her people.”
“I do?” I said. I hadn’t meant to.
I asked if he thought Kyal would get to achieve her ambitions after the story ended. He said No, but that it was okay. When he explained why it was okay with him, I saw that my son, a proud former Marine, had read the story through the lens of Duty. To sacrifice individual wants for the greater good is the logical, moral choice for him. It made me realize that other readers will be reading through their own lenses, some of them quite different from mine.
It’s kind of scary but also kind of wonderful.
DeMeulles Blogs - Why do birds sing?
In his 2007 Massey Lecture, Alberto Manguel retells a story he heard that explains why birds sing. As the story goes, the bird’s song is an adaptive behaviour meant to protect the flock from predators: when one bird spots a kestrel or cat it begins singing to alert the others to take flight. The alarm saves the flock but, unfortunately, things don’t go so well for the whistleblower who by sounding the alarm draws the predator’s attention to himself.
There is an argument that this story metaphorically applies to writers of stories, suggesting that the writer alerts the rest of us of a contemporary danger, be it some existential anomie or creeping social evil. I find it hard to argue with this functional explanation. If one were inclined to look for proof of the social role of the writer one would need to look no further than those titles that have claimed not only our imagination but our most prestigious writing awards — To Kill a Mockingbird, Grapes of Wrath, Night Breakfast on Pluto, American Pastoral, Disgrace — stories that have made us look deeply at those forces that tend to corrode our world. If one were inclined to extend the analogy just a little further, one might see what fate waits for the writer-as-whistleblower in less tolerant societies. For example: Salman Rushdie, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Yang Lian, Gao Xingjian, Chinua Achebe, . . . the list goes on and on.
And given that it is difficult to contest that the writer plays a critical role in alerting us to those ills or evils we have not yet come to see, or are too close to see, I’d like to suggest another perspective on why a writer writes.
A couple of years ago I purchased a series of tapes called Birding By Ear that identified birds by their songs; the introduction suggested reasons why birds sing, one of these being the desire to be identified by the mate. Even when the partner is out of sight the mate would be reassured that the two of them are still connected through voice alone. The thought of the possibility of being connected to our mates through the unique sound of our voices struck me. Reassured me. Caused me to reflect on how the tone and sound of our voice distinguishes us, and weaves us into a web of belonging.
This explanation of why a bird sings comes closer to my personal understanding of why a writer writes.
But if we are going to accept this ornithological metaphor, one must then question: Who is the mate? Is it literally, our loved ones? Or is there some sort of literary extension of meaning, with the mate being some idealized reader? I’d like to suggest that the definition of “mate” be extended even more broadly than just an idealized reader ... for an idealized reader is constructed in our imagination and therefore known to us. I think the “mate” is someone we don’t know. What this means is that the one we sing to, the one we don’t want to lose contact with, is a foreign “other,” someone not known to us, but someone whose very otherness completes us. I know I am in deep waters here. And I don’t want to sound like I’m talking from thirty thousand feet above terra firma, but I think that recognizing our need to be connected to the unknown “other” is at the heart of why a writer writes.
I feel I’ve got to reiterate that I don’t disagree with the perspective that the writer’s role can be functionally defined as helping us all see what we can not otherwise see and thereby alerting us to social ills or evils in our midst. This is a critical social role, and one not free from risk. (The risk here is not just the fear of social or political sanction, but the risk of becoming mired in moral righteousness or political ideology. When that happens the writing loses its capacity to reach anyone.) And although I believe the functional definition of why a writer writes is important and must be preserved, I also feel that this explanation must be supplemented by an understanding that enriches it. What I am suggesting is that the writer is more than a social or moral critic, but one who has discovered the uniqueness of his voice and with that voice reaches out, across space, time, and human distance to that unknown, alien “other” who is waiting to be reassured by the sound of that voice.
Who is the “other”? Someone we need to be connected to, someone whose foreignness completes us. And perhaps it is not always a separate person, but a strangeness we sometimes find within our own hearts.
There is an argument that this story metaphorically applies to writers of stories, suggesting that the writer alerts the rest of us of a contemporary danger, be it some existential anomie or creeping social evil. I find it hard to argue with this functional explanation. If one were inclined to look for proof of the social role of the writer one would need to look no further than those titles that have claimed not only our imagination but our most prestigious writing awards — To Kill a Mockingbird, Grapes of Wrath, Night Breakfast on Pluto, American Pastoral, Disgrace — stories that have made us look deeply at those forces that tend to corrode our world. If one were inclined to extend the analogy just a little further, one might see what fate waits for the writer-as-whistleblower in less tolerant societies. For example: Salman Rushdie, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Yang Lian, Gao Xingjian, Chinua Achebe, . . . the list goes on and on.
And given that it is difficult to contest that the writer plays a critical role in alerting us to those ills or evils we have not yet come to see, or are too close to see, I’d like to suggest another perspective on why a writer writes.
A couple of years ago I purchased a series of tapes called Birding By Ear that identified birds by their songs; the introduction suggested reasons why birds sing, one of these being the desire to be identified by the mate. Even when the partner is out of sight the mate would be reassured that the two of them are still connected through voice alone. The thought of the possibility of being connected to our mates through the unique sound of our voices struck me. Reassured me. Caused me to reflect on how the tone and sound of our voice distinguishes us, and weaves us into a web of belonging.
This explanation of why a bird sings comes closer to my personal understanding of why a writer writes.
But if we are going to accept this ornithological metaphor, one must then question: Who is the mate? Is it literally, our loved ones? Or is there some sort of literary extension of meaning, with the mate being some idealized reader? I’d like to suggest that the definition of “mate” be extended even more broadly than just an idealized reader ... for an idealized reader is constructed in our imagination and therefore known to us. I think the “mate” is someone we don’t know. What this means is that the one we sing to, the one we don’t want to lose contact with, is a foreign “other,” someone not known to us, but someone whose very otherness completes us. I know I am in deep waters here. And I don’t want to sound like I’m talking from thirty thousand feet above terra firma, but I think that recognizing our need to be connected to the unknown “other” is at the heart of why a writer writes.
I feel I’ve got to reiterate that I don’t disagree with the perspective that the writer’s role can be functionally defined as helping us all see what we can not otherwise see and thereby alerting us to social ills or evils in our midst. This is a critical social role, and one not free from risk. (The risk here is not just the fear of social or political sanction, but the risk of becoming mired in moral righteousness or political ideology. When that happens the writing loses its capacity to reach anyone.) And although I believe the functional definition of why a writer writes is important and must be preserved, I also feel that this explanation must be supplemented by an understanding that enriches it. What I am suggesting is that the writer is more than a social or moral critic, but one who has discovered the uniqueness of his voice and with that voice reaches out, across space, time, and human distance to that unknown, alien “other” who is waiting to be reassured by the sound of that voice.
Who is the “other”? Someone we need to be connected to, someone whose foreignness completes us. And perhaps it is not always a separate person, but a strangeness we sometimes find within our own hearts.
Lapeña Blogs - #3
I'm worried that last post was a bit negative. Let me emphasize that writing itself is FUN and very satisfying, at least for me. I feel really lucky that I get to indulge myself this way.
About reading: we don't do enough of it, as a society. I don't do enough of it, as an individual. It all boils down to not having enough leisure time. Marcuse was wrong: all this technology is making us busier than ever! For one thing, we have to Google ourselves all the time. Most people I know seem to have very little time, and there are many more things competing for our attention. I don't even watch TV (not much anyway. I liked Jpod but they canceled it. I wish they'd bring it back) and I still don't have the time to read all the books I'd love to read. I'd like to lie on a couch all day nibbling chocolates and reading all the Fiery First Fiction books, for a start.
I really admire what Yann Martel is doing, sending Stephen Harper a book every two weeks, for as long as he is Prime Minister of Canada. Martel has a point to make. Harper doesn't know how lucky he is to get all those great books free! Plus an intelligent, thought-provoking letter from Yann Martel.
For one thing, I think good fiction is about perspective. That's one reason why we read -- and write -- fiction. It's a way of trying to get perspective on things. In life we are mostly governed in everything we do by our own point of view, our own perspective on things. This is why wars happen, and why marriages fall apart. A lot of the problems in the world, and between individuals, occur because of this inability to understand another point of view. This is the value of very good literature‹it offers a perspective other than our own, and if it's well done, we can enter into that other point of view and understand it, if not agree with it. Reading good fiction
develops empathy and encourages open-mindedness, probably more effectively than reading a very well-reasoned argument could, because it operates on the level of emotion. How could anyone be mean to an animal after reading Black Beauty? So, everybody should read more! And that would bring about harmony and world peace. And increase book sales, which would be a good thing too.
Lewis Blogs - #2
Something happens when I hit certain point in a writing project (and it’s not just me; I’ve checked) where the world starts conspiring to give me what I need. Everyone I meet seems to have some vital information or some sparkling anecdote that’s perfect for the chapter I’m working on; messages written in gravel at the side of the highway give me poignant lines; a song on the radio gives me my title. There’s a word for this phenomenon, apparently: serendipity – an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident. But sometimes it’s tempting to get new-agey about it, to entertain the thought that the story you’re writing already exists as some sort of Platonic Idea, and that God is giving you these small pieces of it, guiding you in your work to put the whole thing into words. (I don’t really believe that but it’s fun to pretend to sometimes.)
I enjoy the sensation that, wherever the story’s coming from, it’s not from me. Not from the part of me that makes choices, anyway. And this becomes most clear when I want my characters to do something, or I want something to happen, and it just won’t work. My characters refuse to do what I tell them. I write down my preferred version of events, but it’s not real; there’s only one way it can go, and feel right. This must be something like using a Ouija board – we feel like something external is at work, but most of us accept the explanation that the voices we access are actually coming for somewhere deeply internal.
What this amounts to, for me, is the belief (that I can’t shake, however flakey it may sound), that the leap I need to make, in order to create something out of nothing, is more one of faith than one of massive effort. I sit down with my notebook turned to a new page, or my computer’s cursor blinking on a stark white screen, and I think this is going to be so hard. But then, once I start, it’s not hard. It just happens. Words appear on the page that never occurred to me until I was writing them.
This is the opposite of paranoia, I guess – the conviction that the whole universe is conspiring to help me.
I enjoy the sensation that, wherever the story’s coming from, it’s not from me. Not from the part of me that makes choices, anyway. And this becomes most clear when I want my characters to do something, or I want something to happen, and it just won’t work. My characters refuse to do what I tell them. I write down my preferred version of events, but it’s not real; there’s only one way it can go, and feel right. This must be something like using a Ouija board – we feel like something external is at work, but most of us accept the explanation that the voices we access are actually coming for somewhere deeply internal.
What this amounts to, for me, is the belief (that I can’t shake, however flakey it may sound), that the leap I need to make, in order to create something out of nothing, is more one of faith than one of massive effort. I sit down with my notebook turned to a new page, or my computer’s cursor blinking on a stark white screen, and I think this is going to be so hard. But then, once I start, it’s not hard. It just happens. Words appear on the page that never occurred to me until I was writing them.
This is the opposite of paranoia, I guess – the conviction that the whole universe is conspiring to help me.
Lewis Blogs - #1
I’ve been staying at the Banff Centre for the Arts for the last 3 weeks, as part of the 2008 Writer’s Studio, and I’ll be here for two weeks more. In my real life, I hardly ever talk about writing. I only have a few friends who write, and even with them, it’s a topic that comes up rarely. But living in close quarters with 23 other fiction writers and poets, writing-related issues come up frequently – more frequently that anything else. Reviews, for instance, or the etiquette of walking into a bookstore and offering to sign your own book (a humiliating venture if it turns out they don’t have it in stock) – and, of course, the daily confrontation with the blank page. It’s soothing to discover that even seasoned, successful writers still have moments of self doubt, and still wonder, with each project, if they really have it in them to write another book.
Once I finished my first novel, I thought, the hard part would be over. No longer would I have to wonder if I was really a novelist; I’d know I had it in me to repeat the performance again and again for the rest of my life. So now I’m struggling with the opening scenes of novel #2, and, as it turns out, the second one is far more difficult than the first. Now I have to write something different – something better – than I did before. Now I have reviewers’ words haunting me as I write. Am I doing that thing again? I wonder, that reviewer X didn’t like? And then I think – maybe one novel is enough. Who needs to write more than one book, anyway? It’s funny that we sit at the breakfast table here sharing stories of the struggles and disappointments of publishing; go for walks and chat about the financial risks – probably insane in most people’s eyes – necessary to finish a first book; and then all go back to our rooms to write some more. Maybe all the stuff that comes after publication is just the icing, and so what if it’s not quite as sweet as we imagined.
For me, it seems I can’t be content unless I’m working on an extended work of fiction. So another novel it will have to be.
Once I finished my first novel, I thought, the hard part would be over. No longer would I have to wonder if I was really a novelist; I’d know I had it in me to repeat the performance again and again for the rest of my life. So now I’m struggling with the opening scenes of novel #2, and, as it turns out, the second one is far more difficult than the first. Now I have to write something different – something better – than I did before. Now I have reviewers’ words haunting me as I write. Am I doing that thing again? I wonder, that reviewer X didn’t like? And then I think – maybe one novel is enough. Who needs to write more than one book, anyway? It’s funny that we sit at the breakfast table here sharing stories of the struggles and disappointments of publishing; go for walks and chat about the financial risks – probably insane in most people’s eyes – necessary to finish a first book; and then all go back to our rooms to write some more. Maybe all the stuff that comes after publication is just the icing, and so what if it’s not quite as sweet as we imagined.
For me, it seems I can’t be content unless I’m working on an extended work of fiction. So another novel it will have to be.
Paul Blogs -- #1
Look ma, I'm blogging! And publishing. And being promoted. At the risk of getting mushy, I feel truly blessed to have such supportive, creative people in my life. The people who know me, the ones who know me through my work alone, and weren't afraid to chance it with a relatively unknown writer (such as editors of lit mags, and my publisher, who turned my words into such a beautiful object) and those who don't know me from a speck on the sidewalk.
Cases in point: I sent a couple of emails, and before long I was launching my collection in Perth, Ontario, my old stomping ground, where familiar faces kept coming into Valley Bookshop to get their signed copies. I set up a reading at Type Books in Toronto, a fabulous independent bookstore on West Queen West, where it seemed like the audience would've sat and listened to
another story or two. I was feted, grandly, at a house party in Toronto afterward, where my friends actually created a drink list inspired by my stories, with a cocktail to match each story, complete with a quote from the work. Lucky, indeed. And now FFF!
All of this is not to brag or boast, but to acknowledge the community that springs up around a book. A few of us have mentioned the fear of launching our "babies" out into the wide world, and this has certainly visited me from time to time. (I had to give my grandmother repeated warnings and disclaimers before actually setting the book in her hands: the first story's
narrator drops an F bomb in the first paragraph. She surprised me by reading half the book in a day.)
Generally, I've found this community to be an encouraging one. This month I'm featured in a local Victoria magazine. Mothers at my daughter's school are pitching the book to their book clubs. I've had a couple of strong reviews. Books are actually selling. But what will happen when I receive the inevitable bad review? My husband swears he'll read all reviews first, to screen them. I'll read them anyway. If nothing else, the years of "Sorry, we aren't taking your work" from lit magazines do get a writer used to rejection.
Hopefully, I'll just have a "False Spring" (a.k.a. a Margarita) or three, and get back to work on my novel.
Cases in point: I sent a couple of emails, and before long I was launching my collection in Perth, Ontario, my old stomping ground, where familiar faces kept coming into Valley Bookshop to get their signed copies. I set up a reading at Type Books in Toronto, a fabulous independent bookstore on West Queen West, where it seemed like the audience would've sat and listened to
another story or two. I was feted, grandly, at a house party in Toronto afterward, where my friends actually created a drink list inspired by my stories, with a cocktail to match each story, complete with a quote from the work. Lucky, indeed. And now FFF!
All of this is not to brag or boast, but to acknowledge the community that springs up around a book. A few of us have mentioned the fear of launching our "babies" out into the wide world, and this has certainly visited me from time to time. (I had to give my grandmother repeated warnings and disclaimers before actually setting the book in her hands: the first story's
narrator drops an F bomb in the first paragraph. She surprised me by reading half the book in a day.)
Generally, I've found this community to be an encouraging one. This month I'm featured in a local Victoria magazine. Mothers at my daughter's school are pitching the book to their book clubs. I've had a couple of strong reviews. Books are actually selling. But what will happen when I receive the inevitable bad review? My husband swears he'll read all reviews first, to screen them. I'll read them anyway. If nothing else, the years of "Sorry, we aren't taking your work" from lit magazines do get a writer used to rejection.
Hopefully, I'll just have a "False Spring" (a.k.a. a Margarita) or three, and get back to work on my novel.
Brink & Westergard Blog - #3
JIM WESTERGARD
When I’m developing an idea for an illustration I have the text to suggest the direction, the mood and the content of the image. My first step is usually to find a point of view, which is also suggested in the text. By point of view I mean not only the eye level of the viewer but the attitude or emotional context. If a visual idea begins to form itself in my mind I draw it in my sketchbook so I can see it and get feedback from it. I move on to another sketch, playing the “what if” game. (What if I move in a little closer on the subject? What if I change to a lower perspective? What if I change the composition?)
After drawing a number of different versions of the idea, I have something to choose from. If I can find a sketch that satisfies me I use it as a basis for the finished image and if not I keep working on more sketches. If I need references for images or something to look at to draw, I turn to my filing cabinet of clipped images or the internet or I take photos of things, or I may even use a mirror (with a little work I can alter things to make amazing improvements).
I use the chosen sketch as a reference and I lay out some light pencil lines on the paper to indicate the composition, and then begin to draw the image directly on paper with pen and ink. I pause now and then to get a fresh look at what I’m doing. Looking at the drawing in a mirror helps because I can see things in the mirror as if I’m looking at the drawing for the first time.
Besides the drawings I’ve created for the book, I created a wood engraving, which is reproduced opposite the title page and on the dust jacket. If I’m working on a wood engraving my next step, after choosing the sketch, is to draw the image on a block of end grain wood. Then I engrave the image by removing the wood where I want white lines or white shapes. This process is time consuming and at various points I stop engraving and print the block to see what has developed. The resulting print is the reverse of the image on the block and “proofing” needs to be done to insure that I don’t remove too much wood.
When I’m developing an idea for an illustration I have the text to suggest the direction, the mood and the content of the image. My first step is usually to find a point of view, which is also suggested in the text. By point of view I mean not only the eye level of the viewer but the attitude or emotional context. If a visual idea begins to form itself in my mind I draw it in my sketchbook so I can see it and get feedback from it. I move on to another sketch, playing the “what if” game. (What if I move in a little closer on the subject? What if I change to a lower perspective? What if I change the composition?)
After drawing a number of different versions of the idea, I have something to choose from. If I can find a sketch that satisfies me I use it as a basis for the finished image and if not I keep working on more sketches. If I need references for images or something to look at to draw, I turn to my filing cabinet of clipped images or the internet or I take photos of things, or I may even use a mirror (with a little work I can alter things to make amazing improvements).
I use the chosen sketch as a reference and I lay out some light pencil lines on the paper to indicate the composition, and then begin to draw the image directly on paper with pen and ink. I pause now and then to get a fresh look at what I’m doing. Looking at the drawing in a mirror helps because I can see things in the mirror as if I’m looking at the drawing for the first time.
Besides the drawings I’ve created for the book, I created a wood engraving, which is reproduced opposite the title page and on the dust jacket. If I’m working on a wood engraving my next step, after choosing the sketch, is to draw the image on a block of end grain wood. Then I engrave the image by removing the wood where I want white lines or white shapes. This process is time consuming and at various points I stop engraving and print the block to see what has developed. The resulting print is the reverse of the image on the block and “proofing” needs to be done to insure that I don’t remove too much wood.
Dey Blogs - #1
It is important not to confuse ‘blog’ with ‘blag’ which is a ‘robbery, esp. with violence.’
Once you have written your book, you can become anything: merchant, murderess, inn keeper - for your life as a novelist has been secured, if only in this single iteration. You can glue a dusty moustache to your face and rename your pets. You can declare I hate Scotch and will drink only Zywiec. You can drive out to the airport and say one way to Arizona will the desert flowers be in bloom? You can become a shouter, a brawler, even a blagger. You can undertake a whole new set of skills. Please, my garden. Here, my window dressing. There, a rhubarb pie. Forgive me, your spleen. As the writer is constantly spying on those they love and those they love less; as the writer takes dutiful notes and spits and howls for Faulkner and Mann and Woolf; now, the writer can abandon all of these slave-like habits and adopt new ones. Medical school! Circus school! A silent protest. Call me Palomino.
It is a particular afterlife, the afterlife of making a book. There are no harps. No persistent light. Instead, it is populated. Populated by people with questions. There is more time in cars. There is less muttering. There is more proper attire. There is less scrawling across grocery lists: his hands were hard as branches. The obsessions are different.
In my office today, as we approach noon and somewhere horses are sleeping standing up, I have books behind me. Piled on the shelves. Notebooks. Black ones. How their stacks are headstones. How ‘Stunt’ came of them. How one hundred notebooks make a single book.
Yesterday, I went to the art store and I bought more notebooks. Black ones. Four of them. 9 by 12 with a ringed sleeve so that the page lays flat and open. In my arms they were a reunion. High heels in the wet grass of a cemetery. They were on sale. Something is taking shape in my mind and like the familiar tug of illness, it is pulling me away from all those other things I might have been. A flight attendant, a lecturer, a fetishist. Even though I wear my pilot goggles and my knapsack full of water to combat the forest fires, even though I drink Zywiec and want Arizona and call the cat Fool, I cannot deny the dark seed starting to define itself. Again.
When I stall in some habit of reverie before paying for the notebooks, the art cashier says, ‘Are you finding everything you need?’
Once you have written your book, you can become anything: merchant, murderess, inn keeper - for your life as a novelist has been secured, if only in this single iteration. You can glue a dusty moustache to your face and rename your pets. You can declare I hate Scotch and will drink only Zywiec. You can drive out to the airport and say one way to Arizona will the desert flowers be in bloom? You can become a shouter, a brawler, even a blagger. You can undertake a whole new set of skills. Please, my garden. Here, my window dressing. There, a rhubarb pie. Forgive me, your spleen. As the writer is constantly spying on those they love and those they love less; as the writer takes dutiful notes and spits and howls for Faulkner and Mann and Woolf; now, the writer can abandon all of these slave-like habits and adopt new ones. Medical school! Circus school! A silent protest. Call me Palomino.
It is a particular afterlife, the afterlife of making a book. There are no harps. No persistent light. Instead, it is populated. Populated by people with questions. There is more time in cars. There is less muttering. There is more proper attire. There is less scrawling across grocery lists: his hands were hard as branches. The obsessions are different.
In my office today, as we approach noon and somewhere horses are sleeping standing up, I have books behind me. Piled on the shelves. Notebooks. Black ones. How their stacks are headstones. How ‘Stunt’ came of them. How one hundred notebooks make a single book.
Yesterday, I went to the art store and I bought more notebooks. Black ones. Four of them. 9 by 12 with a ringed sleeve so that the page lays flat and open. In my arms they were a reunion. High heels in the wet grass of a cemetery. They were on sale. Something is taking shape in my mind and like the familiar tug of illness, it is pulling me away from all those other things I might have been. A flight attendant, a lecturer, a fetishist. Even though I wear my pilot goggles and my knapsack full of water to combat the forest fires, even though I drink Zywiec and want Arizona and call the cat Fool, I cannot deny the dark seed starting to define itself. Again.
When I stall in some habit of reverie before paying for the notebooks, the art cashier says, ‘Are you finding everything you need?’
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