White People: You Know Damn Well Why

I am so tired of the faux, feigned, wide-eyed, or alternately enraged, “If they can say n*gga, then why can’t I?” coming out of the mouths of white people.

You know why.

You explain this to your kids (or I hope you do) all the time. Your five-year old says a bad word and defends himself by saying that someone else said it.

You tell him he’s not someone else, you don’t care what someone else does, he is him and he will not do it.

So, I’ll put it in terms you can understand: You’re not black people. You don’t get to say it.

And I’ll advise: Deal with it. Grow up.

You abide these restrictions all the time, in your daily life, and you expect them to be observed by those around you as well.

You can call yourself fat. I can’t.

You can call yourself stupid. I can’t.

You can call yourself ugly. I can’t.

You see, what we can say about ourselves is different from what others can say about us.

It has to do with our membership in a group, our part in a relationship.

My friend Shelly can call me “dude” when she’s irritated with me. You can’t. You’re not Shelly.

Relatives on the Adams side of my family can call me “Crane.” You can’t. You don’t know that story.

I can address my girlfriends as “biyatches” if I want to. But you can’t. Not unless you know them too, and we like you, and mutually agree to not take offense.

One of my best friends is Jewish. She can refer to herself disparagingly as a “Yid,” (a now out-of-fashion slur for Jews), but I can’t. I’m not Jewish. My Jewish friends can tell Jewish jokes too, but I can’t. I’m not Jewish.

My lesbian friend can call herself a “dyke” if she wants to. I can’t. I can only ever say “lesbian.” Same with my male homosexual friends. I can call them “gay.” I can’t call them “fag,” even though they call themselves that. 

Italian people can call each other “wop.” I’m not Italian, so I don’t get to say that word.

Mexicans can call each other “spic” or “beaner” if they want to. I can’t. I’m not Mexican.

There are some Irish in my family, and they can use the word “mick.” I can’t. I’m not the least bit Irish.

I live with these restrictions on my speech just fine. I make myself understood, I show my affection, or disaffection, as it may be, without resorting to ethnic or racial or sexual slurs. And I manage pretty well on a daily basis, so I know you can too.

You know what I can do? I can call people Russkies. Or dirty DPs. (Another old-fashioned slur.) You know why? Because I am one. Or descended from one, anyway. We can also sling around “Kraut” in our family, or could if we were so inclined, because there’s lot of German in us. But we don’t.

We all learn these rules about language, as kids. We learn what we can say, around whom, to whom. We learn that there are different levels of speech, that there are things you can say to your friends and things you can say to authority figures. You learn not to say certain things in front of teachers, preachers, librarians, cops. If the adults around you are doing their job, you learn that language isn’t just about words, it’s about power and respect and manners and feelings.

When my Russian-born mother and her siblings were together at family gatherings in the 1970s, when they were in their 30s and 40s and us kids were little, they’d get mad at each other and call each other “durak.”

I didn’t know what that word meant, though I knew it was Russian, and I knew it was powerful. Exactly how powerful, in what way, I wasn’t sure. Maybe that’s why I was fascinated by it.

When my grandmother was angry, she’d sometimes call my mom a “durak.”

Sometimes my mother would say, under her breath, “Durak,” when my Uncle Ben was speaking, and then everybody would laugh. Including Uncle Ben.

Other times, in a different, more heated conversation, Aunt Lucy might yell, “Durak!” at Uncle Ben. (He was always in the shit with them, one way or another.) And Ben would get mad and yell, “I’m a durak?”

“Yes,” Lucy would say, vehemently.

“Ty durak!!”? Ben would say, with a kind of implied “ha!” and then he’d slam his cup on the table, and walk out the door. He’d go to the back yard and smoke a cigarette and mutter darkly.

I was obsessed with the meaning of “durak.” (So much so that it might explain my career path, in fact.)

I kept asking my mom, “What does durak mean?”

She kept refusing to answer, or saying it was nothing, or shrugging. Then one day, exasperated after my years of pestering her about it, she finally said, “It means silly.”

Oh. However old I was when this happened — I don’t remember, exactly. 10? — but I knew that was bullsh*t. Why did she spend so many years refusing to define it if it meant silly? So I pushed a little, but she was firm. Silly.

When I was about 14, my mom and brother and I were having dinner with a Russian Orthodox priest. (Yep, you Russkies know where I’m going with this, don’t you?)

He was telling some kind of funny story and I remembered the one word of Russian I knew. I hesitated for just a moment, knowing I wasn't really convinced it only meant silly, but I also knew this was my chance to find out truly what it meant, to get a reaction. I was aware I had a tiny bit of power in my hands, to use that mysterious word, to wield "durak" instead of only hear others say it. I turned to my mom and said affectionately, “He’s durak.”

My mom’s face registered utter shock.

Uh oh.

I looked at the priest. He was blushing, a deep red coming up out of his chest, up his neck, to his cheeks, and right on up to his forehead.

Uh oh.

I turned back to my mom, protesting my innocence, already trying to apologize, and she smacked me across the face. I mean smacked—open palm, with effort. She’d never done that before. I began to wail, of course, saying “You said it meant silly! What does it mean?” and the priest was now utterly mortified, telling my mom it was okay, don’t worry about it, I didn’t mean it….

And I was so on my mom’s shit list for so long over that that I never dared ask again what durak meant.

Until I got to college. I asked a Russian language professor of mine. (The word wasn’t in our dictionaries.) He said it meant “dummy.”

Okay. Well, it’s not nice to call a priest “dummy” of course, but that still didn’t quite explain what happened that day. So I told him the priest story.

The prof’s mouth dropped open. Then he giggled, with horror. He explained that any slur in Russian is much stronger than its English equivalent. Thinking aloud, he said, “So it’s not dummy, exactly. It’s more like…jackass.”

Oh holy mother of god. I called a priest a jackass. I was mortified all over again, twenty years after the fact.

“Moron, ignoramus, retard,” the prof went on.

I finally got it. The word carried a soupçon of contempt, of derision, of a kind that “silly” or even “dummy” doesn’t begin to capture. I never ever said the word to anyone again, even in Russia, where it might have been called for on occasion. I'd learned a lesson about my responsibility to use words with care, and the kind of thing that might happen if I didn't. (And I don't mean the smack. I mean that poor priest's face.)

It is long past time for white people to learn this lesson. You are not a 14-year-old girl using a Russian word without understanding its meaning. You aren't hurting people by accident. You are rather exonerating yourself before the act, trying to claim that the culture has got you all confused. You know better, but you think you’re being tricky by citing rap lyrics, some guys down at the bodega, and black comedians. You are acting like a five-year-old kid, and I’m not falling for it.

Words have power. They have a denotative meaning (an actual definition) and a connotative meaning (their history; and social/political/racial implications.) You can claim that you are 15 or 20 or 25 or 30 or 40 or 50or 66—and thus never owned a slave—and yeah, so what. I don’t give a flying f*ck about that and no one else does either. The word “n*gger” carries in its very DNA the power of a majority population to enslave and exploit and disenfranchise an entire minority people—thus that word signifies the entire social/cultural/political apparatus that was used to define and degrade people based on the melanin in their skin—and when you use that word, as a white person, you are taking up a position in that power dynamic.

(And that’s why Paula Deen is in so much trouble. Not because she used the “n-word” once, thirty years ago. But because she used it much more than that, much more recently than that. Just five years ago, she waxed poetic over a “plantation wedding” as if those “waiters” weren’t actually enslaved human beings. It’s like looking at a picture of a concentration camp and remarking about the lovely uniforms the SS men are wearing. It means you don’t grasp the human, historical, material reality of suffering people, historical as they may be now. And—not historical!—the black workers in her restaurants were required to use segregated bathrooms and entry/exit doors. Read some of the transcript, and you’ll understand why many companies no longer want to be associated with her.)

Anyway, the fact is: you know WHY you can’t use this word. So don’t give me this bullshit about “not understanding” why you can’t say it cuz Snoop Dogg does. You are not Snoop Dogg.

Just stop. Grow up. Show some respect. Take responsibility for making the world a better place, not coming up with “reasons” that you should be allowed to contribute to its ugliness.

The Manny Journals, continued.

(If this is new to you, please scroll down to the bottom of the page and start with chapter 1. Where I also explain what The Manny Journals are and why I'm posting these chapters!)

Chapter 5: First Contact

The phone rings five times before Sydney answers.

“Blake?” She sets down the phone and groans. “It’s six in the morning!”

“Yeah, sorry, I don’t set United’s schedule,” I mutter. I’m not exactly happy to be awake at six in the morning either, but United’s cheapest flight to D.C. departs at 6:30. Despite the early hour, the flight proves popular. Over a hundred other passengers share the waiting area with me, most of them also lost in their own worlds of Internet browsing or cell phone conversations.

Sydney yawns twice more before she’s ready to resume the conversation. “So. What’s up?”

“Me. Pretty soon at least.”

“Yeah, cute. Seriously. It’s not like you to call so early in the morning just for the hell of it.”

Have to love Sydney—always to the point. “Can’t a guy just call his best friend to chat?” I ask, feigning offense.

“The only time you ever call is when you’re in deep shit or upset about something. If you just wanted to chat, we’d be sitting at Starbucks.” Sydney’s tone is sharp but not unkind.

“Touché.” Sydney has an uncanny ability to call me on my BS. “I guess it’s just that I’m sitting here, leaving home, and it feels totally surreal. Yesterday it was like it’s all going to be an adventure. Now the reality’s starting to really set in.”

“That’s normal, I think. If it helps, pretty much everyone’s probably feeling the same way right about now, or will be soon at least. Everyone’s going their own way now, doing different things.” By everyone, Sydney means our other graduating classmates.

“Yeah, that’s true. But most people aren’t moving across the country to take a job they never imagined working six months ago.”

“You’d be surprised,” Sydney says. She pauses, but then quickly adds, “But I get what you’re saying.”

“Thanks.” It’s nice that somebody understands.

“Still, it’s something you’re excited about, isn’t it?”

“Sure, I’m excited about it. Though I also have to admit that I’m a bit nervous. I don’t completely know what to expect.” Truth be told, I’m more than a little nervous. I never told Sydney about how Mrs. Jensen ambushed me at her party, though, so I don’t want to show how anxious I’m really feeling. If I let that slip, Sydney would be sure to find a way to pull the whole story out of me.

A moment of silence lingers between us before Sydney fills it. “Does anyone ever completely know what to expect with a new job? You’ll pull through. You know I respect what you’re doing, but in the end, keeping a few kids out of trouble can’t be that hard, can it?”

I snicker. “I guess you’re right. I just need to relax and have some fun with this.”

“Exactly! That’s the spirit.” A vision of Sydney as my life coach fills my mind. Banishing the image, I decide to wrap up the conversation. Sydney is right. It seems like every time I call her I either need something or I’m being needy.

“Listen, I gotta go. They’re starting to board. I promise I’ll call sometime soon. And it’ll just be to talk!”

Sydney laughs. I’ve always loved that laugh. For some reason, the sound of her laughter reminds me of a fairy tale’s happily-ever-after ending. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll hold you to that. You take care. And don’t forget to smile.”

“Thanks, I will. Bye.”

The plane isn’t really boarding, but it will be in a few minutes. Within a half hour, I’ll be on the way to the nation’s capital to start my new life.

The Manny Journals, continued. 

(If this is new to you, please scroll down to the bottom of the page and start with chapter 1. Where I also explain what The Manny Journals are and why I'm posting these chapters!) For those of you following along:  I'm finally pretty well settled in my new house, and back to working. (Yay!) Two more (old) chapters to edit, then I will decide if I'm going to keep writing new chapters. I'd love to hear what you think, if anybody out there is following along!

Chapter 4: Just a Few Friends

I glance at the clock: 9:51 pm. It’s been six hours, and I’m still working on this god-forsaken PowerPoint presentation. The afternoon has been one of interruptions.

First, my mom calls me to ask about graduation tickets. I only reluctantly agree to send her the seven tickets she requests. Second, right before dinner, my roommate stumbles into the room, bleeding all over the place. (He fell off his bike. I helped him clean his cuts in hard-to-reach places.) Third, my sister texts me to demand that I call her—why she just didn’t call me, I’ll never know—because Mom and Dad are upset about how terribly I’ve been treating them. It turns out that they expect me to crawl home and grovel for their forgiveness, which they’ll only then reluctantly grant.

I’m in far from the best of moods when my cell phone begins playing the opening bars of “Viva La Vida”—the ringtone for people not in my contacts. I almost don’t answer, but then I notice the number. A 650 area code; that’s Palo Alto.

I flip open the phone. “Hello, this is Blake,” I answer, trying to sound chipper.

“Blake! It’s Leslie Jensen. I’m so sorry to be calling this late, but I just got home—”

She just got home? It’s almost 10:00 on a school night.

“And I realized that it’s already Wednesday. I have no idea where the week’s gone.” She places a hand over the phone, and hollers something about finishing homework. Hopefully, she’s talking to Addison.

“Sorry about that. Anyway, I know it is late notice, but I was wondering if you were free this Friday. We’re having a little get-together. It’d be a wonderful chance for you to meet everyone.”

My weekend plans consist of studying for tests and finishing heretofore procrastinated-on projects, but that might have to change.  My employment contract, signed and sealed, still hasn’t been sent. It’s not that I’ve been avoiding the issue. I just haven’t gotten around to it. I suppose I can look at this dinner as a final interview, one last chance to make sure I’m doing the right thing. Besides, waiting one more day to tackle the work I should’ve started last month isn’t anything new to me.

I make a decision. “Sure, I’m free.”

“Great. We’re having dinner catered at our house. Just a few of William’s and my closest friends and colleagues. And the kids, of course. I’m not sure when we’ll actually sit down for dinner, but everyone’s coming straight from work. You should be safe getting here by 7:30.”

“Should I wear anything in particular?”

“A couple of guys will probably still be in suits from work, but something casual is fine. A button down shirt and slacks work. A jacket if you want.”

Mrs. Jensen’s hand slips over the phone’s mouthpiece again. This time she yells about not eating after brushing your teeth. Now I suspect that she may indeed be talking to Oliver.

“Sorry. I’m trying to corral the kids. Oliver’s just finishing up his homework.”

“Ah, right. I’m actually doing the same thing,” I say, chuckling weakly.

Mrs. Jensen’s tinkling laughter joins my chuckle. “Well, then I’m sure you can relate! By the way, I’ll hire a taxi to pick you up for dinner. William has some great bottles of wine he’s been saving. Shoot me an e-mail with where to send the cab.”

I’ve never had someone offer to hire a cab to pick me up for a party. If this is what mannying for the rich and powerful will be like, I could get used to it real fast.

I swallow my surprise. “Okay, great.”

“Super.” There’s a slight pause, and then she says, “I’m sorry. Bryce won’t stop calling me. I have to run and tuck him in. See you Friday!”

“All right. Thanks.”

She has to tuck Bryce in? Ten o’clock seems like an awfully late bedtime for a four-year-old. But then, maybe he only does afternoon session at preschool. One of parenting articles I read recently said that toddlers and preschoolers can have awfully odd sleeping patterns. Worse than even teenagers, sometimes.

I set aside the phone and turn back to my PowerPoint presentation. I can’t wait until I’m done with all of the papers and projects and out playing in the park with the Jensen kids. The occasional catered dinner won’t hurt, either.

A Soviet Dream: What did Stalin's Bathroom Look Like?

A couple weeks ago, I had a wild dream. I wrote it up the next morning then completely forgot about it. A friend just told me about her dream, reminding me of mine. So herewith is the post.

In the last couple days, I have:

1) Edited an article on the Soviet party and state.

2) Read a chunk of Alan Furst’s Mission to Paris. (It’s set in 1938, about Europe’s impending collective suicide.)

3) Perused my friend Caryolyn’s pics of her trip to Siberia.

4) Watched some of Breaking Pointe, the reality show about ballet dancers in Salt Lake City.

5) Consumed huge quantities of water because many days it was over 100 degrees. This is very important.

These things apparently combined last night to produce the following dream.

I was walking through a kommunalka (a Soviet communal apartment) looking for a bathroom. The main staircase was notably reminiscent of the dorm I lived in in St. Petersburg, but when I got upstairs, it became a kind of early-twentieth century rabbit warren of rooms. It was deserted, but I could hear people talking. I brushed hanging laundry out of my way as I walked from room to room.  

Then I went through a door and found a bunch of Russian sailors standing in the middle of the room.

“Do you have a toilet?” I asked.

They nodded, then threw down their cigarettes and vodka bottles and moved en masse across the room. They pulled back a curtain, showing me where the toilet was being stored in a closet. (It was hidden, so it wouldn’t be stolen, or envied by the neighbors, or something.) Then they picked it up and suddenly changed into Ballet Russes-style sailors — their naval dress was now a costume, with sparkly bits — and hoisted the toilet as if it were a prima ballerina, then brought it toward me and put it at my feet.

They began bolting it to the floor so I could use it, but I couldn’t wait, I really had to go.

The Manny Journals. Should I finish them?

This is something of a long story, so I'm going to give the highlights. A couple years ago, a friend and I were co-writing a novel together. We had rather different styles, but complementary skill sets (and um, topic sets, in this context) so we were working together. He bailed, after six chapters, for reasons which aren't really that interesting, so I'll not go into them here.

I've hit something of a wall with the Sophie & Marty novel. (Sigh. What's new?) So I dug this out the other day and took a look at it. I have six chapters of a novel that I think is publishable. Leaving the co-author ethics aside (which in my mind aren't too problematic; I'll explain more later), the question is this: Should I put my time into finishing this novel? Would you like to see the rest of this story? Or is it too derivative? (Of what? Well, if you don't know, I won't tell you. Because if you don't recognize what it's derived from, many other people won't either. Right?) 

So, give the first chapter a read. (I know it's not perfect. I may be an editor but I haven't re-edited this.) The question is this: Do you want to read more? 

There is a poll at the bottom of the post. Please vote!!

Chapter 1: The Beginning

I glance at the schedule hanging above the boarding platform. Only five more minutes until the next train. I slump into the hard plastic chair beneath me and scrub my hands through my hair.

It’s not every day that I have to tell my parents that I’m going to take my $200,000 Stanford education and use it to care for some rich family’s children. My parents have always told me that I could do anything I wanted, that they would be happy if I’m happy. I even remember my dad once telling me that he’d be happy if I became a taxi cab driver if that’s what I really wanted to do. Of course, I know he didn’t really mean it, and I suspect that both of my parents have definite ideas about the sort of career they would like me to pursue. To be fair to them, most double majors in history and philosophy don’t choose childcare as a career field.  

The blaring of the train’s electric horn pulls me back to reality. Once the train stops, I mindlessly follow the crowd through the train car’s sliding doors and find a seat.

As soon as we start moving, the chattering in my mind starts back up. I know Mom and Dad fully expect me to do something amazing, to revolutionize the world, maybe even save it. They’ve always had extraordinary expectations for me. Only, I’m not ready for that. I’m barely even ready to face the world. After four years of grueling all-nighters and a senior thesis that really kicked my butt, I’m ready for a break. I feel like I’ve been running the achievement rat race for my entire life. Ever since primary school, my parents have shuffled me among gifted programs, enrichment classes, and leadership seminars. In college almost every decision I made revolved around how participating in one activity or another would affect my résumé. The position as a part-time research associate was a no-brainer; joining the amateur drama club or finding a girlfriend didn’t make the cut.

Unfortunately, I’ve only recently realized that I don’t have to live that way. Now I’m ready to have some fun, reunite with my inner child, and discover who I am. And I’m going to do it on the tab of some rich family with spoiled kids—a family who is so successful that they don’t even have the time to raise their children without hiring someone else to help.

I glance at my watch and see that it’s already 6:00 p.m. My parents won’t be happy that I’m late for dinner, but that will likely be the least of tonight’s disappointments. It’s possible that I’ll be able to convince them of the wisdom of my decision, but I’m not holding my breath. (I could easily suffocate given how stubborn my father is.) My parents’ backgrounds don’t lend themselves to understanding. Both of them come from working class families, and they’re both the only people in their families to have gone on to college. As IT professionals, they both make good money, but I know that they’ve always regretted not being able to provide us with some of the more lavish comforts of our Silicon Valley neighbors. What Mom and Dad fail to understand is that neither my sister nor I have ever wanted these things. As children, we yearned for little more than our parent’s love and attention.

I push these thoughts out of my mind and focus on what I plan on saying tonight. I know I just have to level with Mom and Dad and tell them how I feel. If I’m authentic enough, they might understand. 

A few minutes later, I reach my stop. The train station is only a few blocks from my parents’ house, so the walk there doesn’t take but five minutes. I let myself in and prepare to announce my presence, but Dad is already there, sitting in the foyer chair. “About time,” he barks. His dark eyes narrow and bore into me—about what I expected.

I manage to spare him a smile and incline my head in deference. “Yeah, sorry, you know how the trains run.” Of course he does—and so do I, which is why I should have left fifteen minutes earlier than did. But then, it’s easy to procrastinate leaving when the destination is one I’m dreading. It’s a shame I don’t have a dad who would ignore the 15 minutes and give me a pat on the back for utilizing public transit. He knows the environment is an issue that’s important to me.

“Well,” he says gruffly, “your mother’s setting the table and putting everything out. We should go sit down.” A second later, he adds offhandedly, “Dee’s already here.” Of course he had to mention that; he has always compared my younger sister and me to each other, as if he could spark some sort of competitive spirit that would cause each of us to try to best the other. Fortunately for Dee and me, we’ve only rarely taken his bait.

I walk into the dining room and sit down at our formal, hardwood dinner table. The chairs are beautifully carved but rather uncomfortable. I remain silent as Mother enters and takes her place at the opposite end of the table from Dad, with Dee and me occupying the table’s flanks. We all reach toward one another, grasp hands, and bow our heads. My father begins saying grace, like he always does.

“Oh Lord, bless this food which we are about to eat and let it nourish our hearts and minds and souls, such that we may come to know you better and do your perfect will. We especially ask that you grant your blessings upon Blake and Dee as they embark on new journeys in their lives—Blake with his career and Dee with her university studies. We thank you for the gifts you have given us and that we know you will continue to bestow upon us. All grace is yours, oh mighty Father. We thank you and ask all this in the name of Christ your Son. Amen.”

Commodification of Authorship (Or Penguin buys ASI: So what?)

Jane Friedman blogged yesterday about Pearson (parent company of Penguin) acquiring Author Solutions in a $116m deal. Read it here. I follow Jane because she is very smart and always has interesting things to say. I don’t always agree with her, but in the best possible way. She pushes me to figure out what I think.

In short, many people are deeply offended by this development. I’m not. Here’s why:

In Jane’s post, she talks about writers. And authors. And how confused they are. But I also (dare I say it?) think she’s a little confused too. She uses the terms almost interchangeably, but I don't think they are, exactly. I think Jane thinks about writers. Not about authors. Or, more precisely: Authors.

And by capping it, I want to indicate that I do not mean the term in the simple dictionary definition. Author is a word that is used to refer to the producer of a piece of writing. Or a specific kind of writing. It usually comes with the genitive case. It usually looks like this: Suzanne Collins is the author of Hunger Games. James Patterson is the author of numerous popular novels.

But the word is changing, in the vernacular. Many people use this word, all by itself.

I am an author.

This is new. Ten years ago, nobody said this. Or very few, anyway, and only in specific contexts. It wasn’t a word one threw around. Like on FB statuses. Both because Facebook didn’t exist and because it was a professional status that had to be acquired. Very few people had it. And very few people who wanted it could afford to buy it.

Now? Different world. Which means – and if you’ve read Marx, you should be way ahead of me right now – what we have here is commodification. Authorship is now a commodity. It is a thing that can be bought and sold. And it is being bought and sold like crazy.

Back in the olden days, most writers were unpublished. They were a type, a tribe. They spent a lot of time talking about craft, talking about submissions. I know this tribe. Plenty of them are still around, and I recognize them instantly when I bump into them. We have a similar outlook on things, a similar vocabulary. They are my peeps. Most of them, once they were (traditionally) published, still called themselves writers. They use the word author in the way I know it and use it. “He is the author of this remarkable book….”

But there is a new type, a new tribe: Authors. People who have self-published perhaps one or two books and almost obsessively self-identify as “author.” (Or even Author. It’s significant how often it’s capped.) I do not recognize them when I run into them. They do not feel like members of my tribe. I realize this sounds judgmental, though I’m trying hard to not make it so. They are people who do not talk about this stuff the same way members of my tribe always have. They are different. Not better, not worse. Different.

And I think those of us – like Jane — who have been tribe members for a long time only think about "writers." We think there is still a singular tribe of people who love the written word. People like us who have always been interested in the literary world, and have spent much of our lives figuring out how to work in it. And we miss something when we don’t differentiate, when we don’t acknowledge the rise of the Author. Thus, some of our critiques about what’s going on out there miss the mark.

While I could go on and on about the self-publishing revolution and what it’s done for writers and readers, I’d rather make this point: Such services do not exist only to connect readers and writers.

These services exist also to fulfill the needs of people who want a certain status. People who want to be authors. Companies like Author Solutions and PublishAmerica recognized this.

While Jane and many others like her have pointed out the problems with these services – and I think they are bad, bad choices for writers, for people who want a career in writing, people for whom this is vocation, not avocation – I don’t think they are necessarily bad choices for those who have other goals.

Because these services give their customers what they want. And that’s partly what the publishing industry is about, these days. It is a consumer business, for consumers who want to be authors.

About a year ago, there was a woman on one of my online writing groups who sent an email, proudly announcing she was being “published.” Some of us asked questions, and over numerous emails, teased out the details. She was paying something like $1500 to a company (name forgotten now; not withheld) who advertised itself as “partner” publishing. They claimed not to take every ms that was sent to them, and detailed the “marketing” efforts they’d make on their “author’s” behalf.

We went to work, assuming she was ignorant of the choices available to her. We explained that they were doing nothing she couldn’t do herself. Her package entitled her to ebook formatting; POD for print; something like twenty copies of her book; plus a “marketing kit,” which consisted of book-title-embossed bookmarks, tote bags, signage, and posters. I did a little math and figured out she was spending something like $50 per copy of her book. Others pointed out that the marketing items could be had for much less if she ordered them herself from online providers.

Every single comment we made was waved off, shrugged off. A few months later, she sent another email, effusing over the carton she’d gotten in the mail, stuffed with her book swag.

And the light bulb went off for me. This wasn’t about being a writer. She was buying the experience of being an “author.” She evidently had some fantasy about what if felt like to be the “author” of a book, to have a “publisher,” to be treated like she imagined someone like Danielle Steel was treated, I’d guess.

Silly? Pathetic? Maybe. Those aren’t the choices I’d make. So what? It’s a free country.

Did she later have a big come-down? Regret the money she’d spent? I don’t know. And even if she did, that means little. She couldn’t be dissuaded then because she wasn’t interested in being dissuaded then. We were never asked to critique a page of text. She wasn’t interested in being a writer, or in apprenticeship. She didn’t want to spend time – a long time – talking to other writers, learning the business. She wanted to be an author. She wanted a status, and she wanted it NOW. Surprise. There are businesses willing to serve her.  

The care and feeding of both writers and authors is a business, and many many folks are making a lot of money off it. Any of the companies working in this industry – mine included – are implicated. I do not turn away people because, in my judgment, their work is unsalable. It's not only not my call, it's business suicide. And this goes for everybody out here. (And, yes, Amazon too. They allow the publishing of ebooks for “free” so that they have a huge quantity of material in stock. Stock which they encourage the author to give away. Or sell for .99 cents. Why? So that they can sell the device that will let you access this vast stock. It’s about the KINDLE.) And these aren’t the only players in this game.

I ended my subscriptions to both Writer’s Digest and Poets&Writers some years back, fed up with the MFA-industrial complex. And the writing-conference-industrial complex.

The MFA will teach you how to write, and give you a terminal degree, so you can teach writing. Right? For the bargain price of what? 25K? Are there jobs to be had? Maybe. (Cf. overproduction of PhDs in the humanities.) The writing conference brings you to a lovely location, and offers you the chance to further your career. Meet agents! Meet editors! Network with authors! Listen to an attorney talk about intellectual property!  Is it the only way to do these things? Of course not. There is some value, but you can get almost the same thing by using Google, blogs, agent web sites, and email. This latter is the time-consuming, apprenticeship method. Many people aren't interested in this method.


And the ethics are problematic. A friend of mine “applied” for a poetry workshop at a certain conference. She was “accepted.” The poet even wrote her a personal email, saying he looked forward to working with her. Then my friend thought about it. And asked me: Have I really been “accepted?” Or I am being tricked?

She’d be forking over almost 5K (lovely ocean location; plus airfare!) for the “honor.”

What to say? The math is ugly. Five thousand bucks for perhaps a total of ten hours (with a roomful of other students) with a POET. Is this a wise writerly expenditure? (And why did I cap POET? Because we all know poetry sells not, that’s why.) Would the poet in fact connect my friend to people who might help her career? Could this by any logic be seen an “investment?” Hmm. How long does it take a poet to earn 5K from their writing?

What exactly is being sold here, anyway? 

I’m not saying these things have no value. I’m saying that determining value is complicated, that different things are being commodified here. Value depends on what the consumer wants and what they think they are buying. Jane says Author Solutions is not “author-friendly,” which is precisely where I disagree. It’s enormously friendly if you want to buy the commodity of being an author. I know people who are very happy with them. If your goal is to feel yourself an "author," you may be very happy with the money you spend there. 

In the writing-industrial complex, people are in fact paying for different things — an experience, a class, a status, a feeling, a vacation, a chance. Which is what I told my friend. If she had the money, if she loved the poet, if she loved the location, if she’d always wanted to do this, then go. I said it was possible the poet loved her work; it was also possible that he loved the work of anyone who was willing to fork over 5K to be told so. I said there was a possibility that this would lead to great career happenings, but I wouldn’t bank on it.


YOLO right? I personally believe that travel (and education) is the best way to use our dollars, so I don't necessarily think it's a waste of money if a conference doesn't lead to a contract. But if YOU think it will lead to a contract, then it might just be a waste of money for you. There are good reasons to do it. Still, one is not necessarily advancing a career as a writer by doing things like this. 

There are plenty of inexpensive ways to get the things that are really, absolutely required by a writer but such things are often packed into pretty, expensive packages for a reason. They find a place in the market because they are fulfilling certain needs -- to do things quickly, conveniently, for one. The presumption that all such packages are overpriced is probably true. And yet. Working with newbies is unbelievably time-consuming, so if you did AS's math, you might be surprised. I know, because I work with newbies. I'm sure there are many dissatisfied Author Solutions consumers. How much of that is because they didn't know what they were doing? Does caveat emptor not apply here? I am sure that many of those folks have required a level of hand-holding that those of us who know what a "gutter" is cannot imagine. Unless you've been on the other side, working with total newbies, it's hard to see it. It's not dissimilar to the first time a beginner is critiqued. We've all seen the reactions that can come in that instance. What is going on with many of these companies is similar. Writers who have apprenticed themselves don't end up in this situation. Seriously. How hard is it to find an online writing group? How long do you have to be there before you start hearing about the companies out there? If you're a writer, if you put in the time and apprentice yourself, you learn these things. Authors are less likely to do this. So beginning with the premise that their consumer “need” is necessarily to have a career as a writer is a questionable assumption.

Something like 90% of Americans believe they have at least one good novel in them, and they want to give it a shot. There is a Gold Rush quality to much of what’s going on. These companies are the new Amway. In the 70s, people who wanted their “own” business sometimes paid hundreds of dollars to buy starter Amway distributor packages. It was mostly dumb and it mostly didn’t work. And yet. Those people wanted to feel like they had their own business, and they got what they paid for, at least for a while. And some folks made boatloads of money. So it will be with these authors. Some of them will find new a new career. Many more will come across a box of books in the corner of the garage years from now and groan, the exact same way my parents’ friends groaned when they discovered a leftover box of Amway SA8 laundry detergent. Does it mean they’d not do it all over again? 

Finally: My point. This is why my response to the Big Six finally figuring this out -- as evidenced by Penguin's acquisition -- is mostly: Eh. So what? Everyone else is doing it, why shouldn’t they? Geeze. When they tried to argue they were curators, incubators, that they had some cultural mission, everybody shouted that down. So where they were once high-and-mighty gatekeepers, they are now unethical sleazes. (Which to be fair and clear, Jane herself did not say, but I've seen it elsewhere.) Really? So much of the analysis these days is what psychologists call splitting: Good or bad. Maybe the Big Six are neither; or both. I actually gave a small sigh of relief when I saw this news. The sad, cynical truth: The money is out there to be made. Maybe if the Big Six make some of it, they’ll survive. Many of my tribe work in those buildings. And they get me, as a reader. The coursing Borzoi has made me happy for decades now. I’d like to keep seeing it.

Are You Sure the Editor is the Idiot?

Image by Tex Batmart via Flickr

Advice for Writers: Have your tantrum. In private. Then get to work
I do some freelance editing for publishers. For one in particular, I am a rewrite editor. In this role, I work directly with writers. It's my job to get a manuscript (ms) into publishable shape. When I'm done with the ms, it goes to a copyeditor.

In other words, they don't give me an ms that simply needs a few commas tweaked and some verb tenses changed. The publisher gives me the ms because they've decided it needs substantial work. Anyway, I sent one such marked-up ms to a writer last week.

I spent a lot of time marking it up, because it has a lot of problems. I don’t want to go into much detail, because I don’t want the writer or house to be identifiable. (This is the reason I've not used a pronoun to identify the writer, either. I don't even want gender to be clear.)

And the writer turned it around in about an hour. Yeah, really. Made precisely one fix. My queries and suggestions were essentially blown off. The writer's responses ranged from "I don’t care" to "this is an unimportant detail" to "nobody will notice" to "it doesn’t matter" to  "fix it if you want." To my most significant structural notes: "I disagree." Then the writer sent it back, as if these responses took care of the issue.

As you can imagine, I wasn't thrilled.

The writer clearly thought the publication contract was the finish line. And that I was an annoyance. A buzz-kill. And that if I was ignored, I would go away.

Jose Mendoza: Part IV (final episode)

Mendoza is keeping his distance. He’s still outside a lot. He smiles at me. He watches me. But he doesn’t speak to me. When I have to walk by him on the steps, I pretend he is invisible. If I don’t see him on my way into the apartment, I look for him when I get there.

I have a new coming-home routine. I drop my keys on the stereo speaker--the place we always drop our keys, it’s just a few feet inside the door--then I reach down behind it and grab the knife I keep there. The pointy end sits in the groove, in the left corner. I want to be able to grab it without thinking. I check every room, behind doors, the closets, under the bed. Then I put the knife back and try to study.

***

Something wakes me up. I look at the clock. Little after midnight. I wait, breathe, try to identify what what I heard. It's hard to hear over the seashell sound in my ears. There’s movement outside my bedroom window. I sit up, then scooch closer to the edge of the bed. I put a foot on the floor, lean over, so I can look behind the curtain without moving it. Mendoza is standing outside my window.

Jose Mendoza: Part III

Two uniformed officers appear. I discuss underwear, lamps, kitchen curtains. They nod and write things down. I give them a little tour, explaining the tape. At first I’m afraid they’ll think I’m nuts. In the end, I think they’re a little impressed with my scotch-tape trap.

Do I know who is doing it?

I have a suspicion. Guy who lives upstairs. I think his name is Mendoza.

Jose Mendoza: Part II

“I need to ask you a question,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“Did you take a little, um, memento of me out on the road with you?”
Silence on the other end of the phone.
“Eric?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“My pink bra is missing.”
“And you think I took it?”
“And the matching panties.”
“You’re losing your underwear? Sounds like I should ask what you’ve been doing.”
“Seriously, Eric. That’s the expensive stuff.”
“Seriously, Karen. Why would I do that?”
“Um—”
“Well, okay. I know why I might do that. But no, I don’t have it.”

Bird Poop on the Window and Jose Mendoza: Part I

I was feeling cosy and content last night, lying on the couch in my newly-remodeled living room, clicker in hand, when Annabel started going bonkers at the window. She'd been hanging out on her window seat, then she started jumping up and down, batting at the window.

Bug, I figured. She kept it up. But I couldn’t see a bug, then I noticed that there seemed to be a splotch on the window. Weird. So I dragged myself over there to look. Yep, bird poop. No way to clean it off, either. I live on the second floor. And it’s odd. Five years in this apartment and it's never happened before. So I looked out the window, and up, taking into consideration the gutters, then asked Annabel “How did that bird manage that, anyway?”

And I was suddenly having a flashback.

I had done a similar thing one spring night in 1988. I lived in a garden floor apartment in Des Plaines, Illinois. I was standing in the bedroom when I noticed some odd stains on the window. I went closer and looked at them, looked out, and up. Sheer brick wall. And I asked Charlie, my cat, who was sitting on the window sill, “How are those birds pooping on that window like that?”

The answer to my question was: Birds weren't. But I wouldn't know that for a couple of months. This was only the first odd thing that I noticed in a series of odd things that, together, add up to just about the scariest thing that's ever happened to me.

What is the Titicut Follies/Memoir Project, Anyway?

Since I talk about this now and then, and most people have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, I thought I’d ‘splain it. A little. For anyone who is interested.

First, it helps if you know something about the film Titicut Follies (1967), directed by Sam Wiseman. It’s much easier for you to click on the link, read a little about it, then come back here. Go on. I’ll wait.

You’re back already? Good. Well, my uncle was in that film. Pretty much anyone who has ever seen the film remembers him: He is the tall, thin, Russian dude. Vladimir. He is on the left in that photo, the psychiatrist is on the right.

Vladimir wages a sort-of quest in the film, to get the psychiatrist (and the committee) to send him back to Walpole, the prison from whence he came. In fact, in almost any discussion of Titticut Follies, especially on the Interwebs, people have stuff to say about him. Pretty much all of them are wrong in their suppositions. They assume that because Bridgewater housed notorious sexual predators (like the Boston Strangler), Vladmir must have been one too. They assume that he was mentally ill when he went there, or he wouldn't have landed there.

Thank you, Baby Cheeses

Yesterday, I sent an email to a client. This is the second book I’ve done with her, so I know by now how she responds to things. She was brave the first time around, with her first book, but some of it really stung, I could tell. She was never a tantrum pitcher or anything like that, but she tended to withdraw a bit, lick her wounds, then resist a little.

I know writers think editors like being mean, like ripping something apart. So not true. It sucks for us too. I really hate it when I have hard news to deliver to a writer. I mean, I love the challenge of improving a piece, or I wouldn't be doing this work. But there is a real downside, as well.

And in this case, she's already rewriting, based on an initial critique of the ms. So I am now editing the rewrite. I had to essentially say, sorry, but you missed. Again. I was a little worried.

And, appropriately enough for an editor, I worry about my language. It's never easy to say, "uh, we have a problem here." It's a tricky thing. As an editor, you can’t be so soft that the writer thinks it’s not that important. But you also can’t come on so strongly that it seems like you’re bossing them around, or just plain being mean. And in this case, I thought it was a critical problem, a crucial moment in the novel. If we didn’t get it right here, the rest of it wasn’t going to hang together, really.

So I drafted the email, as I usually do: First, going through and getting down my points, making the argument in the intellectual/technical sense, then going back through and softening the language, paying attention to the emotional side of it. Trying to be sensitive. For help, I turned on Barry Manilow’s Feelings. Ha, just kidding, but maybe I should. This is an area in which I sometimes feel unskilled.

(In an almost-completely unrelated note, I should say that I am learning that my tendency toward hoof-in-mouth disease—and to stampede over people’s feelings—may be innate. It is apparently the fault of my natal astrology. I am a Sagittarius. And I’ve been doing research, for an astrologer character I have in my own work, and so I’ve been studying my own chart. I found a description of Sagittarius the other day that explained its mythological symbol, half-Centaur (the back half, natch), half-Archer, with this lovely editorial gloss: “Any sign can make half-an-ass of itself, Saggie, but you’re the only one that’s born that way.” Ha! I’ve been giggling about that for days.)

Anyway, I finished the email—and with a glance at the heavens, asking for a little protection, perhaps a small Christmas miracle of my very own—I hit the send button.

Two hours later, the writer responded. I took a deep breath, and clicked open the email. And she said, essentially: "I knew you were going to pick on that chapter! You’re right. And I can’t believe how well I’m taking this, btw, but I am. I’m going to start rewriting next week. Don’t do anymore editing, I’ll rework it and send it back to you. Thank you! Merry Christmas!”

I feel like a proud parent, amazed at how quickly they grow up! She's a pro now. It's about the work, about getting it right, and getting it done. I love when this happens! It's also like being a teacher, and seeing the lightbulb go off over your student's head. Yes, thank you! And Happy Birthday, Baby Cheeses!

I See Said the Blind Man As He Picked Up the Hammer and Saw...

So, I didn’t think I would be doing any blog posting, well, maybe ever again. I keep forgetting about this thing. And I certainly didn’t think I’d be doing it during NaNoWriMo. For the uninitiated (perhaps the one out of my three regular blog readers who isn’t a writer), it is National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. (See http://www.nanowrimo.org/ for more information.)

This is my first year doing it. I’ve been meaning to do it for a couple of years, but I kept not remembering it existed until the middle of November. This year, I remembered in mid-October.

Anyway, the NaNoWriMo guidelines suggest that you do not pick up on a work in progress for this exercise. They are guidelines, not rules, because NaNoWriMo leads to nothing more than one's own satisfaction. It's not a contest, there are no prizes. It's more like a playgroup. A toddler playgroup: You sign on to play with your fellow writers, but you all play next to one another, independently, not cooperatively.

They explain their reasoning for not doing a work in progress, and I read that last month, and I ignored it. I decided to pick up on my Sophie and Marty thing (which, from this day forward shall be designated “MO” for magnum opus). I have about 120 pages of that story, and I love that story—though I keep getting bogged down in it—so I thought NaNoWriMo might be a good way to blow through the rest of the draft.

But: No. It appears that those folks know more than I do, which I really hate. They said that it’s too hard to get that word count when it’s a work in progress. (To get to 50,000 words in a month, you must average 1667 words per day. That is just over 6 pages of text PER DAY, which is no problem if you have no need to eat, sleep, earn a living, or goof off on Facebook.) The NaNoWriMo folks said you know your characters already, you are attached to them, you have something of an endpoint in mind, and you cannot really free yourself creatively, to just put one keystroke down after another, and get those numbers.

They are correct.

But, I’d been thinking a lot about the MO, and I'd just worked my way through a plot problem, and so I started the first day with a killer scene. Not literally, not the killer. A really great scene, I mean. But I realized, second and third days, that I just wasn’t going to be able to put up the numbers I needed on this project. It’s literary. It's too big, and yet too narrow, to just pound away on. I need more creative elbow room.

So, last night I started something brand new, with a minor character that I borrowed from yet another work in progress. I picked her up and I plunked her down three decades earlier and about 3000 miles east of where she was before. Now, obviously she is going to be different in this new time and place. But she was a minor character anyway, it’s not like I knew her that well to begin with.

I don’t want to say much more than that about it. I’m one of those people who can talk myself right out of a story. And I have an idea where this might end up, publication-ally. It is essentially a new challenge, one I thought of and accepted (in my own head) about two days ago.

One interesting thing about this is that the NaNo file is now schizoid. I’ve already done some bopping back and forth between the two stories. One MO scene, one new thing scene. (I really have to learn how to come up with provisional titles!) There are two stories going on in that Word file, and their only connection is that they are coming out of the same head.

We’ll see. I have no idea where I will be with this on November 30. But I am enjoying the freedom of the new story tremendously. And I believe what Jasper Fforde said in the pep-email he sent to NaNoers yesterday: You may end up throwing out these 50,000 words, but you will have learned something critical in the process, and you will be a better writer for it, and you will never regret the exercise.

And I’m happy to have finally joined in the true spirit of NaNo, the way it’s supposed to be done. AND I got a blog post out of it. Amazing!

Unconventional Marketing Tip #1: Make An Ass of Yourself

Last night: My friend came over to pick me up. We were going to another friend’s house for dinner, but we had a little time to kill. So we had a glass of wine. ONE glass. (But it was kind of a big glass, and it was almost 7pm. And I hadn’t eaten since breakfast at 11am.)

On the way to our destination, I spied a PetSmart. This reminded me that the little monsters were almost out of food, so I asked my friend to stop. And I ran in and grabbed some cat food and then I ran up to the register and plopped it down on the conveyor belt. Nobody in line. Fantastic: 30 seconds, and I’d be out of there.

Then I saw the sign, next to the cash register. It said: PLEASE LEAVE HAIRY ITEMS IN CART.

So, I asked the cashier: “What’s a hairy item?”

And he said: “What?”

I nodded at the sign, and I read it aloud, for his benefit: PLEASE LEAVE HAIRY ITEMS IN CART.

And he looked at the sign for a long moment, and then HE read aloud, kind of loud and slow—the way you might read to a small child, or an escaped mental patient: PLEASE LEAVE HEAVY ITEMS IN CART.

And before he was even finished, of course, I could see that the word was HEAVY, so I started laughing, and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t have my glasses on. And my eyes are fried.” I rubbed one, for effect. “I’m an editor and I’ve been working all day.” I shook my head at my own stupidity.

And he said, “An editor? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh, really?”

“What kind of stuff do you edit? Fiction or non?”

“Both,” I said.

“I have a draft of a novel. Would you take a look at it?”

And then, because I am nothing if not a salesperson, I said, “For free?”

“Yeah.” He gave me a winning smile.

So I smiled, and I glanced down at the cat food, and I said: “Can I have that for free?”

“Point taken,” he said, and laughed. “How much do you charge?”

“Well,” I said, “it depends.” And I started digging around in my purse, looking for a business card—except that I don’t HAVE business cards, I run an Internet business—so I pulled out a notebook and flipped to a clean page and I wrote down my email address, and I was about to write down my web site, except . . . I drew a blank.

Then I looked up at him, and I blinked a couple of times, and I said: “I cannot remember what my web site is.”

And he raised his eyebrows, and said, “Really?” He smiled tentatively, and I started writing down permutations of what it might be, trying to figure it out. And then I started explaining, while I was scribbling—that “I never visit my own web site, and it’s in my email signatures, so it’s not like I type it very often, plus I have a couple of email addresses that have permutations of the web site in it, which is REALLY what is confusing me at the moment—and no, it’s not http://, that’s the beginning of my blog, not the website,” so I very firmly crossed that out, “and I only had ONE glass of wine, but all I ate today was two eggs, plus I just switched ISPs, so I have to think about the whole Netzero/Comcast thing, and I keep messing that up”—and then I made a big circle around bookdr.net and I said, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it.”

And I gave him the paper.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll email you.”

“Okay. Great.” And then I walked out the door.

REALLY.

About three steps out the door, I realized I didn’t have the cat food I just bought, so I turned around and went back in. He was holding the bag aloft, waiting for me.

Sunday morning. There is an email from him. He has attached a chapter. And it’s not bad. He can write. He wants an estimate for a line edit on a 120,000-word ms. That’s real money.

And the last line of his email reads: “Your web site is actually www.BookDr.net.”

An Edna St. Vincent Millay Kind of Day

Wow! Haven't updated this blog since May. Busy, busy--paid work, and my own writing. But I am turning over a new leaf. Though I am not posting original writing. Oh well. Sue me!!

Today, doing some research, I stumbled across Millay's name. It's been awhile since I read her, and I always regret not doing it more often when this happens. Two of my faves:

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.


Love Is Not All

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Writer's Block: Part I

Many of my writers-friends have been talking about being blocked lately. I don’t know why, but everybody seems to have come down with it at about the same time. Thankfully, I am NOT currently blocked, but I’ve been there. In fact, I'm slightly superstitious about writing about it. What if thinking about writer's block brings it down on me? Then again, if I were blocked, I wouldn’t be able to write about writer’s block, would I?

I’m not going to do a discussion of whether this condition actually exists or not. I think it does. As far as I’m concerned, the whole idea that “it’s just in your mind” is exactly the point. It is in your mind, the same way hallucinations are in the mind of a schizophrenic. I mean, the person standing next to a schizophrenic may not see the winged monkeys approaching in missing-man formation, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t exist for the schizophrenic, does it?

Anyway, I tend to find myself with two distinct variations of writer’s block:

1) Plain old writing blahs. I’ve got no ideas about anything, none of my works-in-progress interest me, and I think it might be time to take up knitting or something else, because clearly this writing thing isn’t going to work out.

2) Serious stuckness on a WIP. In other words, I have plenty of ideas for what happens after x, but I cannot figure out what x is, or how to get past it.

I’ll take the second first. The conventional wisdom on writer’s block is that the serious, professional writer gets herself out of it by writing her way out. In other words, you plant your butt in the chair, and you go at it, with fingers on the keyboard. It doesn’t matter how many words you write, or whether you throw every single one of them out, the point is that you work the problem in the most obvious manner for a writer.

This doesn’t work for me.

This approach makes me unbearably bitchy. I start resenting everything—my computer, the keyboard, my characters, my coffee mug. I feel imprisoned, and whatever creativity I might have brought to bear on the problem is instead expended on daydreaming up ways to torture the writers who maintain that if I cannot do this, then I am not a real writer.

I prefer the indirect approach.

I gather up my files of research and my rough drafts, and I get the hell away from my desk. I go somewhere else—even the couch is an improvement—and I page through my files and reread my roughs. I use my pens and highlighters and colored post-its--I have an office-supply fetish--and I find tidbits of research that can be inserted here or there. Or I run across a bit of research I forgot about, and that will prompt an idea, and I’ll write a scene—in pen, on paper.

I edit the rough drafts. I re-read my beta readers’s comments, and consider them again, now that it’s been a few weeks since I received them, and I’m done resenting the person who called my character “annoying.”

In short, I mess around with the ms until I have some ideas about other things that can be done with it--things that have nothing to do with what has me blocked—and then I eventually make my way back to the computer, and I mess with those problems.

The effect isn’t always immediate, but if I stick with it, I generally find that whatever it is that has me blocked begins to resolve itself. And the beauty of this approach, to my mind, is that I don't get emotionally involved in being stuck, because I am still working on the ms.

Usually, the problem resolves itself in a light-bulb moment. It tends to happen while I’m doing something entirely unrelated, like squeezing cantaloupes in the grocery store, and then I have to put down the fruit and scramble in my purse for pen and paper to get down this fabulous solution before I forget it.

Yeah, I know. People might think I'm weird. I don’t care. I also pretty regularly walk around talking to myself, trying out dialogue between characters. (See why I thought of schizophrenics?) I gave up worrying about what other people think a long time ago.

The next post will address the first problem, the general writing blahs.