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My one big Writer Hangup, as you probably remember if you've read this journal for any length of time, is length. When it comes to prose I always worried that I overwrite; I always worry that what I write is too long. But when I broke Arizona into four books most of these fears went away, and not having them constantly gnawing at both my psyche and my internal self-editor is a liberating novelty.
So of course, the Writing Demons decided to come up with something new.
I have to say that they were impressively creative. Being a writer demands at least some skill in observation, whether its observing other people and the way they behave, talk, what motivates them, etcetera...or observing yourself, your own feelings, what motivates you, and so on. I, however, can be notoriously oblivious. Oblivious to myself, and to others - to the point where, for example, my wife has to point out to me when women are flirting with me, since I usually totally miss it.
So now what the Writer Demons are whispering is You are not an observer, you know nothing about observation...you're only a good mimic.
That is, I don't write what I write with any skill of being able to connect with people. I just read about them and I'm good at synthesizing it and making it sound like I know what I'm talking about when I really don't. That I'm somehow faking it.
Silly or not, this has been plaguing me for the past few weeks. And I have bouts with more mainstream versions of Writer Imposter Syndrome. But then yesterday I suddenly drove off that newest literary toxin with a single thought:
I don't care.
And I don't. Because that's a fear that comes from the ego. The story I write isn't about me. The story is about the story.
That's worth saying again. The story is about the story.
Look at it this way: How much do we really know about the lives of our favorite authors? Broad swaths, maybe, but probably not many details. What we care about is whether or not it's a good book. My job is to write a good book--how I go about that, as long as I'm not a plagiarist or invading real still-living people's private lives, is irrelevant.
So in the meantime I'll just keep trying to write good books. And when I'm not writing, try to figure out on my own whether or not someone is flirting with me.
PROGRESS REPORT FOR 8/22/13
New Words: 1800 on chapter 2 ("The Winnowing, 1874") of Copper Heart. Kate gets lessons from Tombstone Epitaph editor John Clum on Tombstone's various factions, particularly the Earps versus the outlaws lumped together under the name Cowboys. It quickly becomes clear that Kate's presence is either going to help make peace or cause the local tensions to get far worse.
Total Words: 81900.
Reason For Stopping: Same as yesterday - getting late and I was getting hungry. Especially since Laurie was cooking a delicious pasta with sausage.
Book Year 1881.
Mammalian Assistance: None. Nobody was interested for some reason.
Exercise: Packing several hundred books into a large bin.
Stimulants: None, aside from the aforementioned sense of liberation.
Today's Opening Passage(s): Kate tried not to gasp when she walked into the spacious Grand Hotel, as she was still putting on airs of affluence, though she didn’t begrudge her male companions’ sounds of surprise since they were putting on airs of ruffianism — hardly far from the truth in Rock Marrak’s case. Her attention was drawn immediately to the three chandeliers hanging in the lobby. A lush carpet stretched beneath her feet, and the walls were covered with oil paintings.
Before entering the hotel she had worried that such a fancy establishment might look down their noses at the people Carlos, Roberto, and Rock were supposed to be. But stepping inside dispelled her fears despite the expensive trappings. The place had its share of well-dressed and well-heeled patrons, including at the saloon and the faro and poker tables, but the opposite end of the spectrum was heavily represented as well. Men, Kate thought, who likely were blowing a month’s wages in one day on gambling or a prostitute. It was clear the Grand Hotel only discriminated against people who could not pay for what they wanted.
Darling Du Jour: Once again, maybe not a darling but a heck of a lot of fun to write...
“In your travels, ma’am, you’ve heard of the Cowboys?”
“I’ve heard stories. I know nothing concerning their authenticity.”
Clum leaned back, warming to his tale. “I’m certain that everything you’ve heard is God’s truth. Thieves and bandits all of them, though many aren’t bad sorts, if you’ve no objection to them stealing from Mexicans south of the border.” He glanced for a half-second at Carlos, then resumed. “A lot of people here like them, especially the Clantons and the McLaurys. Ike’s got a hell of a temper but they tend to be more generous than some. And Frank McLaury, if you believe the stories—and he’d deny them if they weren’t true—hasn’t been in a single gunfight in his life.”
“They’re practically Merry Men,” Kate said.
“I suppose you could think that, if the stagecoaches they’ve started going after are funded by the rich. I don’t know if any Clanton or McLaury has gone chasing after Wells Fargo, but other Cowboys have. That’s only made things worse with Sheriff Behan and the Earps.”
“Tell me about the Earps,” Kate said. About Wyatt she caught herself thinking, but squashed it.
“Virgil’s the city marshal, as you know. He’s the oldest. Fought in the war, came back to be a lawman ever since. Wyatt would’ve been undersheriff but lost that election. Wyatt and their brother Morgan are cowmen, really, but both pitch in to help Virgil whenever he asks and often times when he doesn’t.”
Clum laughed and sipped his drink. “And by God, Wyatt’s fearless. I mean really fearless. The things I’ve seen him do, the way he’s taken on gunmen with his fists and won every time…some men, Miss Alvarez, are only fearless because they worry what others will think of them, or because they’ve been drinking too much. But Wyatt Earp doesn’t care what people think of him and he never has a drop of alcohol in his belly. He’s the only man without fear I’ve ever known.”
“And he hates the Clantons and McLaurys,” Kate guessed.
“There’s plenty of hate to go around. Right after Wyatt got here, say, not quite two years ago, Ike Clanton stole his horse. Wyatt went to fetch the horse and stared down young Billy, who was just seventeen at this time, until Billy gave it back. Ike was mad as a sun-baked hornet at both Wyatt and Billy after that. Meanwhile, Virgil got on the Clantons’ and the McLaurys’ trails for rustling. And it hasn’t gotten any better with any of them ever since. They keep running into each other over and over, constantly crossing paths in the wrong directions.”
Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: N.K. Jemisin; Larry McMurtry; David Baldacci.
So of course, the Writing Demons decided to come up with something new.
I have to say that they were impressively creative. Being a writer demands at least some skill in observation, whether its observing other people and the way they behave, talk, what motivates them, etcetera...or observing yourself, your own feelings, what motivates you, and so on. I, however, can be notoriously oblivious. Oblivious to myself, and to others - to the point where, for example, my wife has to point out to me when women are flirting with me, since I usually totally miss it.
So now what the Writer Demons are whispering is You are not an observer, you know nothing about observation...you're only a good mimic.
That is, I don't write what I write with any skill of being able to connect with people. I just read about them and I'm good at synthesizing it and making it sound like I know what I'm talking about when I really don't. That I'm somehow faking it.
Silly or not, this has been plaguing me for the past few weeks. And I have bouts with more mainstream versions of Writer Imposter Syndrome. But then yesterday I suddenly drove off that newest literary toxin with a single thought:
I don't care.
And I don't. Because that's a fear that comes from the ego. The story I write isn't about me. The story is about the story.
That's worth saying again. The story is about the story.
Look at it this way: How much do we really know about the lives of our favorite authors? Broad swaths, maybe, but probably not many details. What we care about is whether or not it's a good book. My job is to write a good book--how I go about that, as long as I'm not a plagiarist or invading real still-living people's private lives, is irrelevant.
So in the meantime I'll just keep trying to write good books. And when I'm not writing, try to figure out on my own whether or not someone is flirting with me.
New Words: 1800 on chapter 2 ("The Winnowing, 1874") of Copper Heart. Kate gets lessons from Tombstone Epitaph editor John Clum on Tombstone's various factions, particularly the Earps versus the outlaws lumped together under the name Cowboys. It quickly becomes clear that Kate's presence is either going to help make peace or cause the local tensions to get far worse.
Total Words: 81900.
Reason For Stopping: Same as yesterday - getting late and I was getting hungry. Especially since Laurie was cooking a delicious pasta with sausage.
Book Year 1881.
Mammalian Assistance: None. Nobody was interested for some reason.
Exercise: Packing several hundred books into a large bin.
Stimulants: None, aside from the aforementioned sense of liberation.
Today's Opening Passage(s): Kate tried not to gasp when she walked into the spacious Grand Hotel, as she was still putting on airs of affluence, though she didn’t begrudge her male companions’ sounds of surprise since they were putting on airs of ruffianism — hardly far from the truth in Rock Marrak’s case. Her attention was drawn immediately to the three chandeliers hanging in the lobby. A lush carpet stretched beneath her feet, and the walls were covered with oil paintings.
Before entering the hotel she had worried that such a fancy establishment might look down their noses at the people Carlos, Roberto, and Rock were supposed to be. But stepping inside dispelled her fears despite the expensive trappings. The place had its share of well-dressed and well-heeled patrons, including at the saloon and the faro and poker tables, but the opposite end of the spectrum was heavily represented as well. Men, Kate thought, who likely were blowing a month’s wages in one day on gambling or a prostitute. It was clear the Grand Hotel only discriminated against people who could not pay for what they wanted.
Darling Du Jour: Once again, maybe not a darling but a heck of a lot of fun to write...
“In your travels, ma’am, you’ve heard of the Cowboys?”
“I’ve heard stories. I know nothing concerning their authenticity.”
Clum leaned back, warming to his tale. “I’m certain that everything you’ve heard is God’s truth. Thieves and bandits all of them, though many aren’t bad sorts, if you’ve no objection to them stealing from Mexicans south of the border.” He glanced for a half-second at Carlos, then resumed. “A lot of people here like them, especially the Clantons and the McLaurys. Ike’s got a hell of a temper but they tend to be more generous than some. And Frank McLaury, if you believe the stories—and he’d deny them if they weren’t true—hasn’t been in a single gunfight in his life.”
“They’re practically Merry Men,” Kate said.
“I suppose you could think that, if the stagecoaches they’ve started going after are funded by the rich. I don’t know if any Clanton or McLaury has gone chasing after Wells Fargo, but other Cowboys have. That’s only made things worse with Sheriff Behan and the Earps.”
“Tell me about the Earps,” Kate said. About Wyatt she caught herself thinking, but squashed it.
“Virgil’s the city marshal, as you know. He’s the oldest. Fought in the war, came back to be a lawman ever since. Wyatt would’ve been undersheriff but lost that election. Wyatt and their brother Morgan are cowmen, really, but both pitch in to help Virgil whenever he asks and often times when he doesn’t.”
Clum laughed and sipped his drink. “And by God, Wyatt’s fearless. I mean really fearless. The things I’ve seen him do, the way he’s taken on gunmen with his fists and won every time…some men, Miss Alvarez, are only fearless because they worry what others will think of them, or because they’ve been drinking too much. But Wyatt Earp doesn’t care what people think of him and he never has a drop of alcohol in his belly. He’s the only man without fear I’ve ever known.”
“And he hates the Clantons and McLaurys,” Kate guessed.
“There’s plenty of hate to go around. Right after Wyatt got here, say, not quite two years ago, Ike Clanton stole his horse. Wyatt went to fetch the horse and stared down young Billy, who was just seventeen at this time, until Billy gave it back. Ike was mad as a sun-baked hornet at both Wyatt and Billy after that. Meanwhile, Virgil got on the Clantons’ and the McLaurys’ trails for rustling. And it hasn’t gotten any better with any of them ever since. They keep running into each other over and over, constantly crossing paths in the wrong directions.”
Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: N.K. Jemisin; Larry McMurtry; David Baldacci.
