Brief Hiatus

I’ve had to take a sudden trip, and won’t be able to post for a few days. I’ll see you all when I get back. In the meantime, don’t forget to comment on this post for a chance to win a subscription to Rosebud. Deadline is August 17.

Oh, And By The Way, I Want to Be Damn Good

I had a few thoughts to add to yesterday’s post, in which I railed against motivating oneself as a writer by looking down on other writers. I want to clarify that this doesn’t mean I think all writing is created equal, or that there’s no such thing as bad writing. Instead, I’m thinking about what I learned when I was a serious (albeit poorly rated) chess player. You don’t get better by playing against people who aren’t as good as you. If you want to become a better chess player, you find players who wipe the floor with you, and you play against them all the time, while studying technique frantically on the side. You also have to do things like look over your games and try to figure out why that better player was able to squeeze you out from move 11 on.

The analogy with writing is that, while I do believe there are things to learn from bad writing, I try not to waste time playing against it. That just encourages overconfidence, arrogance, and laziness. In chess, if I get used to playing against people who aren’t as good as me, I get used to getting away with using tactics that would open me up to merciless punishment at the hands of a better player.

I am willing to be a bad writer in the interest of learning what I need to know. I accept rejection slips and writing lots of revisions. But I’m not going to lie to you: I want to write things that will be remembered after I’m dead. The weird balancing act of writing is that I have to acknowledge that and work for it while also being humble and accepting lots of setbacks. My belief is that the best way to accomplish this balancing act is to surround myself with people I find a little intimidating.

If I send out a submission and feel certain it’ll be accepted, I suspect I’m not reaching high enough and am possibly training myself to settle for lazy habits. If I talk to another writer and don’t feel a little in awe of their work, they may let me get away with less than the best in mine. I want to be damn, damn good, and I don’t get there through the comfort of scorn. I think the way to greatness is to make sure I’m always a little out of my league.

What Makes Me Think I Can

Many times, I’ve seen interviews or posts in which a writer says she decided to make a serious go at writing and publishing after reading some godawful novel, throwing it down in disgust, and saying, “Surely, I can do better than that!” This has always turned my stomach, and the feeing of superiority has never been helpful to me.

I once had a lover who could barely stand to go into a bookstore because he compared himself with every writer on the shelves, thinking of all of the books as books he hadn’t written. Was he better than those writers? Was he worse? Was he younger than Writer X when Writer X published a debut novel? Older?

I think that kind of paralysis is exactly what this tendency to comparison creates. I was useless at taking my writing anywhere beyond the drawer as long as I worried about what Writer X was doing. If I look down on Writer X, and then I get a rejection slip, what does that say about me? I think this attitude leads to bitterness and contempt for the industry.

The last couple years, a different feeling has been growing on me. I’m finding myself inspired by seeing writers who are making progress, winning awards, and getting published. It started with writers I’ve learned to recognize online. Watching Matt Bell go from winning the Million Writers Award to publishing chapbooks to being about to release a story collection has been inspiring. Watching Jordan Lapp, who is one of the editors of Every Day Fiction, win a Writers of the Future award and go to Clarion West has been inspiring.

Lately, I’ve had the privilege of meeting some writers in person. Ken Liu and I have talked over various aspects of the writing and publishing process, and it helps to see how serious he is about this, and to meet someone who’s spent years studying markets like I have. (Ken has also won a Writers of the Future award, and has published some excellent stories, including this one). At the featherproof books event, I got to meet and talk briefly with Amelia Gray, who’s an extremely nice person whose book AM/PM I just finished devouring, and who won the FC2 prize.

Seeing that human beings can be persistent, develop their craft, and be recognized for it is what makes me think I can do this. When I was a child, writers were some sort of extradimensional being to me. I’d rather keep myself on this path by recognizing people’s humanity, not by feeling contempt for what people have done.

That doesn’t mean I love every piece of fiction out there. It just means that I don’t find it useful to focus on the ones I don’t like, and they certainly don’t help me stay motivated. I know it can be intimidating to look at Flannery O’Connor or George Eliot or Neil Gaiman or Maureen McHugh or whomever and wonder how they write like they do. I think any serious writer has to get over the fear and figure out which writers to admire, look up to, and learn from, not which writers to scorn.

New Lit Subscription Giveaway

Congratulations to Ken Liu for winning a subscription to The Sun! Next month, I plan to give away a subscription to Rosebud, which holds a special place in my heart as the first literary magazine to which I subscribed. I’ve been a subscriber since issue 23, when Joe R. Lansdale’s “Bob the Dinosaur Goes to Disneyland” caused me to pull out my checkbook and instantly subscribe (alert readers will notice the dinosaur theme). Rosebud includes great literary fiction of a variety of genres, as well as poetry, and the comics of R. Crumb.

To enter to win the subscription, leave a comment on this post before 11:59 p.m. E.T. Monday, August 17, 2009. I’ll randomly select a winner from the list at that time. U.S. only, I’m afraid, and the previous winner will be disqualified so I can spread the love. Good luck, and I’ll be plugging this throughout the month.

The Haul

I went to featherproof books’ Dollar Store Summer Megatour at Brookline Booksmith last night, and the event was so much fun that I fell into a sort of book-buying frenzy. I’ve got more to say about the actual event and the authors I met there, but for now, here’s the haul, all of which I purchased because of how extremely aesthetically pleasing the books were, and how much fun I had hearing the authors read. I’d have bought more, but even I worry about how much I’m spending on books sometimes…

Lust and Cashmere, by A.E. Simns

Hiding Out by Jonathan Messinger

AM/PM by Amelia Gray

Trouble by Patrick Somerville

boring boring boring boring boring boring boring by Zach Plague

Hobart #9, the Games issue

When I read articles about how people no longer spend money on books, I am sure that the people writing these articles have never met me. Something like 80 percent of my disposable income goes to book buying, and the rest goes to french fries.

Awesome Dinosaurs

People who know me personally will understand why I find this so awesome. It’s called “Let Us Now Praise Awesome Dinosaurs,” and it’s by Leonard Richardson, published in Strange Horizons. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve read in recent memory:

“Don’t guilt me! I love Cass like my sister who’s a different species for some reason. My half-sister. So, I’m putting in the legwork to find out who’s behind this. I did a web search for ‘I hate dinosaurs’ and it’s either the radical birdwatchers or the young-earth creationists.”

“I’ll tell you who’s behind it,” said Entippa. “Some idiot built an unsafe vehicle and another idiot named Cass signed off on it. She’s got carnosaur entitlement syndrome. People get hurt and everyone says ‘Oh, how could this have happened’ and it happened because carnosaurs think they own the world.”

“You’re neglecting the important point, which is, birdwatchers.”

“Birdwatchers.”

“I never realized the depths of their hate, Entippa. One faction that considers us birds, fit only to be watched. And another faction that considers us mere lizards, beneath their notice!”

This story is such a wild ride to read. It makes me want to use exclamation points. Dinosaurs from Mars! Dinosaurs on motocross bikes! Incredibly fun story, and with a pointed ending that makes it matter.

P.S. Leonard Richardson was one of the editors of Thoughtcrime Experiments, which I spent a great deal of time on this blog obsessing about.

P.P.S. In a truly awesome juxtoposition, Strange Horizons published Richardson’s story alongside Brian Trent’s article, “Was There Ever a Dinosaur Civilization?” which I haven’t had a chance to read yet, but certainly will.

Last Chance

I come out of my relative silence to remind you that tonight is your last chance to leave a comment on this post and win a subscription to The Sun. Good luck!

Oh, the Irony

Yup, I missed two posts in a row right after my anniversary post stating that I’d finally gotten better at writing regular posts. My favorite form of humor is irony. Coming back from vacation, it’s been tougher to blog than while I was on vacation, and I’m reading at a much greater rate than I can write posts.

I did a lot of heavy literary reading while on vacation, and then read Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book in my first couple days back to take a break. This book, like all of Gaiman’s work, grabs me and propels me through it, and it feels really good to read that way. When I was a kid, first falling in love with reading, all books felt that way to me. I often wonder what makes that feeling decrease.

Don’t get me wrong–I love to read. It’s just that, while all books used to totally absorb me, that now happens less often. The books that have completely absorbed me so far this year were John Scalzi’s Old Man’s War series, Sean Stewart’s Mockingbird, Margaret Ronald’s Spiral Hunt, Daryl Gregory’s Pandemonium, and the aforementioned Graveyard Book. All of these books “ruined my life,” in a good way–I didn’t want to eat, sleep, or talk to anyone until I finished them. Genre books, all of them.

I love literary fiction, and I’ve read plenty of literary fiction that made my heart pound all the way through (see, for one example, Matt Bell’s short story “An Index of How Our Family Was Killed“). But sometimes it seems that writing gets classed “literary” precisely because it isn’t a page turner. This seems unnecessary, and a losing proposition in terms of finding an audience. Does a book get classed genre anytime it has that pageturning effect? On the other hand, I sometimes feel I have to explain what I mean when I talk about the literary value of a genre work. What’s going on?

I spend a lot of time pondering the genre/literary split, and I like publications and presses that blur it (Small Beer Press, for example, and I have high hopes for Monkeybicycle). What I really want is to have it all from my fiction. I want great writing that keeps me up at night. I read and study all kinds of short stories because I want to understand how they work. But I feel weird when a journal or collection feels a little like eating flax–it’s supposedly so good for me, and yet sort of unpleasant.

There are literary journals that completely avoid the flax effect–Rosebud, for example. Others just aren’t that fun to read, and I have to ask myself, why is it that a book can be full of good stories and yet be no fun? (And, let me add that I don’t require happy endings or sunny subjects to call something fun).

This is one of the great mysteries, as far as I’m concerned. When I am reading a book that makes the rest of the world fall away, it’s such a relief. It makes me wonder why it isn’t always that way.

Happy Birthday, Blog

It’s been one year since I posted my “Hello, World!” on this site. I want to say thank you to all who’ve visited the site since then, and to the writers whose work I’ve enjoyed and tried to share with others. My consistency’s been up and down a bit, but I’m hoping that I’ve got things sorted now. Here’s to another year!

The Books of Traveling

While on vacation, we got a chance to visit The Strand bookstore in New York City. When I travel, I buy books as souvenirs, but not in an obvious way. I don’t tend to buy books about New York City, for example. Instead, I pick up books that will make me think of that particular place and time. In honor of The Strand, all my book links in this post will point to their online store.

At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I picked up The Undressed Art: Why We Draw by Peter Steinhart, after spending two hours in the drawings and prints exhibit. I’ve read the first couple chapters and am so far finding it’s exactly what I was hoping for–a nontechnical work intended for the curious layperson that explores how drawing affects a person’s life. Its focus so far seems to be on amateur artists and life drawing, and drawing as a hobby, though Steinhart does interview pro artists and models.

At The Strand, after some discussion, my husband and I picked up the following books (all the prices were great, so it’s worth checking out what The Strand is selling them for):

The Curtain by Milan Kundera–a philosophical essay on the art of the novel (my choice, enthusiastically seconded by him–he talked me out of putting this one back when we were whittling down our stack)

The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas in a new translation by Richard Pevear–we both love Dumas, and the translator and the physical beauty of the edition were what sold us on this volume, which will be our third version of this book (his choice)

A boxed set of Orhan Pamuk’s My Name Is Red, The Black Book, and Snow–I’ve been curious to read Pamuk for a long time, and when I checked out this set, I felt like the books came across as literary mysteries of a type I might like. (my choice)

Tales of H.P. Lovecraft, selected and edited by Joyce Carol Oates–you can never have too much Lovecraft (his choice)

Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands by Michael Chabon–I was sold on Chabon’s attention in these essays to the question of how genre work and literary writing fit together. He’s a credible source, particularly considering the attention that The Yiddish Policemen’s Union got from both sides of that equation, and I often wonder about things along these lines. As readers of this blog well know, my tastes run in both directions, and I often wonder if I’m losing readers by jumping from one to the other. I’m curious to see what Chabon has to say about this. (my choice)

Doctor No by Ian Fleming–This is an example of what I mean about souvenirs. I feel like The Strand has a hip, pulpy vibe in the midst of its formidable literary stacks. Getting the Fleming from there felt right. (my choice)

You may have noticed that I chose more of the books–I’m bad that way. My husband says he’s glad to have married someone who loves books more than he does, though he had not previously realized that such people existed.