How’s it going? Let me tell you.

In case anyone wonders how well the professional side of this writing dealio is going for me, the answer is: not all that well. Also super-great. It’s a contradictory kind of gig.

I’ve sold more paperbacks this year than ever. Yay, right? Well, yes and no. Enough to cover the costs of travel, that’s the real q, and the a is: LOL NO.  And the real kick in the teeth? I’ve seen no sales bumps online after conventions this year. In fact not a single ebook has sold in the last 30 days. And only 1 in the 30 days before that.

Le sigh.

I am not discouraged about writing. Far from it. It’s been an abysmally rough 3 years, life-wise, but I believe in the quality of the stories I have published, I’m excited about every project I have in the works, and I have a lot going on.

  • A novel completed & headed for line edits w/cover art commissioned.
  • A backstory novelette in the same series coming together nicely.
  • A new novel in  new series outlined (Yes! I made an outline. Me! I’ve already deviated from it, but I MADE IT.) The writing of it is coming along & developing beautifully.
  • I even have a totally independent new short story brewing! A THING I COULD SUBMIT TO MAGAZINES! HOW COOL IS THAT?!  (Worthy of an interrobang, that’s how cool.)
  • plans made for attending more conventions  where I can meet people, sell books & hopefully participate on panels. Because I do love panels.

But as for my belief that there’s a wider audience for my stories, beyond than the few people I’ve already reached?  Yeah, that might be nearing rock-bottom.

I am happy to have the readers I do have. Thrilled, even. I never expected anyone else to find my quirky tales worthwhile. That I have touched people with my words, made readers think and ponder and feel? That’s amazing and humbling will never get old.

But…
Still.
Zero new ebook readers?
Le sigh.

In case anyone wondered…

My stories snowball. The plots begin slowly and slide down a four-act slope unfamiliar to most readers. Along the way they collect “unnecessary” sub-plots and huge cast lists, gather speed near the end to crash big, then roll to a slow halt.
 I also routinely defy the “Chekov’s Gun” rule, clutter my paragraphs with rhythmic repetition, adverbs, oddly-constructed dialogue, and scenes that don’t drive the plot forward. Yes, I do much of this by design. (Not all. Anything done can be overdone.) But I confess freely I write my prose the way I do on purpose.
Nobody needs that, right? That sort of writing  needs cutting, slicing, tightening, and revamping. Remove those extra descriptions. Pick one way to say a thing. If you show it, don’t tell it. Cut out the fat of phrasings and leave only the meaty core.
Sometimes yes. Sometimes, emphatically, no.  
 Go watch Hateful Eight. (but only if you have a strong stomach) Now speak to me of showing and telling, knotted plot threads, non sequiturs, slow progression, meandering dialogue, uneven scenes, and characters who do not “serve the story.”
Some excellent writing strays far from the path of easy consumption. Yet everywhere I turn, I see subversiveness rejected by consumers who view writing with a critic’s eye or an editor’s mindset.  Tarantino fans are clearly the exception. Alas, as far as I know, they aren’t reading my books.
Here’s a dirty truth: all reader value judgments are equally valid/invalid, no matter how much experience, how much gravitas, how much talent they bring to their evaluation. In many ways, the more familiar a reader is with the nuts and bolts of writing, the less objective their value judgments become.

Reading is a process deeply colored by unexamined elements. We bring our knowledge of the writer, our full and prior reading experience, and even our moods to the page with us.

Is Hateful Eight Tarantino’s best? I don’t think so. Is it good?  Its box office popularity is undeniable, but how would viewers and critics judge the same script from an unknown?   If it wasn’t written by Tarantino, whose weighty awards and critical acclaim give his vision critical momentum, would Hateful Eight have been green-lighted in the first place?
I have to wonder.
And that’s my point, as much as this post has one. I’ve been a misfit all my life. l can live with that status extending to my writing, even when it means being buried under an avalanche of disinterest.

Smoothing Out Snags

Today I made progress with a bit of Prodigals plot that’s been bugging me for a while now. This meant going back to several early scenes,  re-phrasing dialogue and adding snippets of description to create foreshadowing and anchor later bits of plot, plus adding some descriptions and deleting others.

It’s the writing habit I’ve struggled ever harder to accept, especially these past 16 months or so. (My Year of Authoring)  Everyone says it’s the wrong way to write. Not in so many words, no *  but the overwhelming message from seminars, workshops, and advice columns is this: Proper Professional writers let their creativity flow free, who stop self-editing, leave what’s already on the page alone. Don’t pick at things, bad writer, no! Just finish those rough drafts, forward ho!

Not me. My books crawl over the first-draft finish line sidelong, crabbing their way to the words “The End” in fits and starts and meanders. Or I don’t end them at all.  It’s yet another way I do this writerly gig all wrong. Yup. I am Bad Writer. ™

If my mind is focused on an earlier section, the only way forward is back. Changing a few words of dialogue to bring in nuance or set up a later joke, re-writing a sentence ten times to tighten the action, or moving a scene to another part of the timeline and making it fit there —that is what frees up my mental log jams and gets new words flowing again. It’s the course my brain follows. I can do other things, but that story won’t move again until I clear the way. Not even if I add a bear. (Or a lion or a tiger.)

Progress goes sideways, upside-down and twisted, or nothing happens.

I’m not always a Bad Writer. Chiseling out the initial form of a story and discovering the basic shape–that part I can do according to Proper Form. ™  I come up with a beginning scene and ending and  write from the start. Plot details come into focus as I complete scene after scene, and I progress forward with only a minor hitches here or there to add in things whenever I realize they needed to be there all along.

But there always comes a point when I cannot finish — usually before or during the final action–unless I substantially add to and/or change the earlier story at the same time. Forward progress grinds to a halt while I tinker and fix and fuss.

This isn’t a discovery-writing issue: it happens  after I know how events should play out to the end of the story. It’s the point when story-sculpting becomes more like word-weaving,  where I’m connecting ideas to ideas instead of seeking the original shape in imaginary stone.

And after six times ’round the long-form fiction track, I need to make peace with it being an inevitable occurrence. It isn’t fussing. It isn’t over-thinking. It isn’t self-doubt. My writing approach is analytical, consistent, and gets results. Slow ones, and maybe ones that don’t look like anyone else’s in the world, but quality results all the same.

The self-doubt is what makes me think i should try  another way because all the cool kids do.  Believing in my own process is a million times harder than it should be. I hate pushing against a powerful tide of disfavor. This is me, forging a dike with words of my own.

Writing out the final action of any story over about  5,000 words will  require tracing back every thread leading to the climax and smoothing out rough spots on each converging piece in play. As. I. Go. When the urge hits, when the itch gets fierce, when I look at what’s there and think, “No, that doesn’t fit, I need to fix it,” my only course is a careful walk backwards between the fragile shapes of half-made ideas, not a plunge headlong to any resolution as long as it’s final.

Trust in the Force, and all that. I will bumble to the end of my plotline my own way, not so much marching to my own drumbeat as bouncing into every story molecule along the way in Brownian exuberance. I won’t get there by the right path or the fastest one, but I will get there and look fabulous when I arrive.

So there.


* when the experts in front of the class  always say, “bottom line, everyone has to find their own way, do what works, but hey, you should try it this way if you’re stuck because this is a known winner,” it’s a mixed message to say the least.