Social reading

I grew up in a fortunate environment, surrounded by people who loved to read. My parents, my brothers, and all of my friends: all heavyweight readers. In elementary and middle school, I lacked close friends, so in high school, my newly-discovered joy was social reading. When someone recommends you read a book… or you reccomend they read a book… just so you can geek out about it together.

The first of these was probably the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan. At the time that I first started reading him, I believe he had published book seven, Crown of Swords. All my new friends had already read to that point and some of them had had to re-read several as new ones came out. Each of them was impatient with the wait. I, newly exposed, was exuberant to be reading them. Most of my friends gave up on the series at about that point, saying they’d come back and read it when the series was complete, but I didn’t mind—gamely, I’d buy the next one and read it without a refresher, and I caught up.

I honestly didn’t understand why reading a book series you enjoyed was considered by so many to be work. I mean, you don’t go back and re-watch the first four seasons of a show when the fifth comes out, right? There’s a sixty-second blurb at the beginning of the first episode that explains where the last season ended, and we’re all back in the game.

At any rate, I read Wheel of Time, Ender’s Game, Ender’s Shadow, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Stranger in a Strange Land, The Dark is Rising series, and The Rook (the list goes on, but those are the ones I can remember off the top of my head) in the spirit of “OMG you have to read this book!” Since then, I have recommended books I’ve discovered to my friends with mixed results. The Time Traveler’s Wife, Her Fearful Symmetry, and Rant—all books I deeply enjoyed—didn’t go over as well as I expected among my friends. This is, of course, fine. Everyone is completely entitled to his or her own taste. But I feel I must have spent my “OMG you have to read this book” capital, because since 2010 or so, it seems like I can’t get anyone to read anything I recommend.

Mindful of the fact that my last series of recommendations were met with lukewarm responses, I’ve kept my finger off the trigger when it comes to recommending books. In fact, I’ve only recommended three—Daughter of Smoke and Bone, Days of Blood and Starlight, and Dreams of Gods and Monsters. I started with gentle nudging: “Hey, I think you might like these books.” I continued, weeks or months later, with equally gentle reminders. My volume got louder and louder until I finally offered to buy the first book for any of my friends who would read it. I succeeded in getting one of my friends to read the first book, and she absolutely loved it and couldn’t put it down, and we geeked out about it a little bit—but she never read the second book, or expressed any interest in doing so.

What the hell?

I know that everyone’s not only busy, but mentally and emotionally “occupied.” People are either not reading or they’re re-reading books they know they love, the same way you put on your favorite slippers.

I miss the days of social reading. I think that, like other things, when we’re stressed and tired we convince ourselves that reading is a chore. I wish I could re-show people that it’s really not; really, it’s an escape from the things that stress us out. Forget a chapter a night—a page a night is such a good winding down from the day. And, when we read the books our friends recommend, we have more things to talk about when we’re together; more lines of connection that are, frankly, becoming more and more scarce as the years go by and our roads diverge.

Just a thought. Happy reading, all!

Reading progress, with a side of exhaustion

I’ve finished reading UtToDIBT and HaHH as of yesterday. After finishing the former, the latter started out weak, but I got used to the differences and, side by side, both were extremely valuable resources. It gave me many pointers on how to strengthen my story, establish and reinforce themes, be aware of the literary power—and be a good feminist while doing so.

My current concern is that the hardboiled genre is unkind. In its original form, its conceptualization of women tends to be victim, villain, or virgin (and the “virgin” trope really doesn’t show up much); all that’s important is how they relate to the men in their world. The power of the woman lies in her sexuality. None of these women ever come out on top. The flip side of that, is that in noir, no one really comes out on top. The detective prioritizes his “code” above his personal life, and the book ends with the feeling that he does his best in a flawed world.

The problem lies in trying to have a hardboiled novel in which a woman is the investigator. It isn’t a problem if you don’t care about the underlying sexism of the genre, but since I do, I’m ending up with some problematic choices.

The premise of a detective novel is, of course, crime. In my case, murder. And yes, murder of women. I am once more transforming women into bodies. I think that the way to deamplify this is to make sure that there are women in the story who are more than bodies, and I think that I achieve this just fine (and am cultivating ideas on how to do this even better). But when you have a genre that makes a point of shitting on women, and you add to that the systemic sexism of the professions of law enforcement and private investigation, you possibly end up with a protagonist who reinforces the idea that doing this “man’s job” is wrong and will bring her nothing but pain. When the male investigator makes that choice, we can say, “He chose this; we know that he could have made a different choice and no one would have been surprised or judged him more harshly than any other man;” but for a woman, there’s an added layer of judgement and expectation of failure. If she prioritizes her professional code over a man, she’s unwomanly, possibly even inhuman; if she gives in to her given temptation, she’s pathetic. So, do you give your character the opportunity for a happy ending and flout the genre conventions in favor of a more empowering feminist work? Or do you stick to the genre conventions and run the risk of reinforcing the idea that women are doomed from the moment they step out from behind the stove?

Branden suggested I minimize the sexist aspects of the world. “It is near-future; maybe things aren’t so polarized anymore,” was his argument. It’s not a bad argument, but exploring the boy’s-club aspect of this was a thing that intrigued me and excited me, and to be honest, reinforces one of my themes. So, I consider it to be an important part of the story. And, in line with my themes… a happy ending just doesn’t seem to fit.

I hope that doesn’t make me a bad feminist.

Since June tenth, I’ve had some real issues with fatigue. I’ve been tired and sleepy from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to bed, and it doesn’t matter how much sleep I get or that I’m taking Adderall to help me be human. I don’t know if I’m thinking straight anymore. Some things seem insurmountable. When I think about my book, it seems like I have too many conflicting things going on and I can’t reason my way through to a solution. I try to keep in mind that exhaustion is a mind-altering drug and I shouldn’t make decisions while exhausted, and that definitely helps me not overthink things too much, but I worry that I’m never going to not be tired again. I have to make decisions again at some point, right? I can’t keep track of everything, and I’m going to screw up my book, I just know it.

So… on a lighter note, I started reading the Maltese Falcon. It’s 187 pages. Right at this minute I can’t do a word count, but I suspect that’s really short. It also starts with a physical description of the detective, followed immediately by a physical description of his secretary, followed immediately by a physical description of the femme fatale, followed immediately by a physical description of his partner… I’m fairly certain that if this book were written today, it wouldn’t have gotten published. That being said, it’s fully engaging. It’s extremely descriptive: every action explained in minute detail, every feature scrutinized. That is not something I have done in my book so far, and honestly I can’t see myself doing it. But that’s okay. It’s good to know the established tropes.

Well, my train of thought just derailed. Until next time, faithful viewers!

Well, this has been anticlimactic

Just as I embarked on my third draft journey, I received the feedback from my writers’ group that I had so craved. While it has been overwhelmingly positive, the things that got picked on surprised me, and to my surprise, stung me quite a bit. I don’t want to go into them at this point, since I haven’t even mustered the courage to finish reading all of it. I know that intentions matter little when writing inclusive fiction—just because you don’t realize you’re furthering a negative stereotype or trope doesn’t mean you shouldn’t correct it when it happens. Still. I feel a little picked on, which I know is something I need to get past.

I found myself reacting to some of the feedback with, “But... I feel like that’s true to the genre,” which made me realize that I’m actually not all that well-versed in the hard-boiled detective genre (previously mis-identified [by me] as noir, which is a whoopsie made by the film industry, check it out if you’re interested) despite reading many contemporary examples of same. As they say, you can’t break the rules until you know them.

I picked up a couple of academic-style books about the Hardboiled genre, Unless the Threat of Death is Behind Them by John T. Irwin and Hardboiled and High Heeled by Linda Mizejewski. So far, I’m about 82% of the way through UtToDiBT (that’s a fun acronym), and it’s really opened my eyes to what’s “important” about the genre. The tropes are fun, but they aren’t what makes it literary. It’s surprised me on many levels: one, how close I came to a lot of the marks without having been aware of them. Two, the fact that there are a lot of different ways to write correctly within this genre. Three, the best things about literature are present in the best Hardboiled and/or Noir novels.

Discovering this stuff has really raised the bar for me. I’m simultaneously invigorated and goddamned terrified. I have seriously considered straight giving up. I have reminded my writers’ group that wunderkinds are bullshit, but it seems like the inventers of the genre all wrote literary-level novels on their very first try. I have a hard time imagining juggling all those balls, to be totally honest. But, if I think through the process, I have realize that either, they actually got very lucky without realizing it (which actually is a thing that happens), or they had this in mind as they wrote, and possibly shoehorned some things in which might have felt very unnatural to them at the time in order to get that level of literary value. Dashiell Hammett may have had a notecard that said: “Theme: contrast the repetitive with the extraordinary with the singular” and then another notecard that said “parable: Flitcraft? Features: flying shrapnel, breaking machinery” and looked back at these notecards as he crafted the dialogue—certainly a final-draft problem. The Maltese Falcon didn’t spring forth from his forehead, fully formed. It was designed, and he took as much time writing it as it took to get it as close to right as he could. (And, to be fair, it wasn’t his first work in the genre.) Hammett, Chandler, Cain and other authors within the genre were all striving throughout their careers to master their craft—more than just telling stories, they were telling the Human Story, even if those who fancied themselves authorities in the world of literature considered detective novels to be pulp fiction.

Writing is a marathon, not a sprint.

I was reading UtToDiBT earlier and was suddenly overcome with the urge to fill out some notecards before I forgot all the brilliant things that had just occurred to me. So, instead of being OCD and forcing myself to keep reading, I went and got my notecards. I filled out six notecards with two character’s starting and ending points and the events that trigger the changes. I am happy that I did this. Now I’m done and am going to go back to reading. I’ll notecard again if the mood strikes me. If not, I’ll roll right into HaHH. After that, I’m going to be reading at least The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett and The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler. And then I’ll feel at least a little more secure in asserting that something that may be considered a “bad” thing to do falls within my genre.

I may even feel empowered to do it differently.

June first! Back to the novel!

Yesterday, I was chafing against the “rules” keeping me from starting to edit my story again. I had over-filled my video game and TV meters, and was craving a creative outlet. I was sincerely frustrated, and felt thwarted in life in general. Luckily, I realized fairly quickly the cause. (That sort of existential crisis can seem world-ending if you don’t know why you’re having it.) The fact that it was May 31 and I was a mere twenty-four hours from being able to pick up my manuscript again gave me a lifeline.

In May, I had hoped to resume my four-day-a-week gym schedule, but alas, it was not to be. Branden and I went this past Saturday, skipped Sunday for sleep reasons, and today I attended the gym all on my own. I’m shaky all over because my muscles aren’t used to this kind of exertion any more. My stomach is upset, I think because I’m hungry. But for the first time in weeks, my back isn’t in searing, terrifying pain. The shakiness will subside, the hunger is treatable... I’m so glad I went.

Today has been a good day, so far. In addition to the gym, I ran a couple of errands and have knocked out about half the chores I need to do today. Although I could extend myself and finish them all before starting to write, I decided that starting the process is more important, more fulfilling. Also, if I can lasso the muse while she’s hanging around, I have a much better chance of actually being able to do something today, rather than staring bleakly at the page wondering where to begin.

Once again, I have high hopes of note cards and cork boards, and it seems slightly more likely to happen this time if only because everything is already there, waiting for me, not floating in the ether. But I don’t care too much if it doesn’t happen, because trying to force a certain method will only end up stifling me instead of helping. So I’ma let it flow as it flows, we’ll see what ends up happening. I may start out simply making notes in the margin, as it were, like “develop setting here” or “you could fit in more worldbuilding here.” I think that I may have the most luck trying to make a scaffolding for future edits, rather than trying to make the edits themselves. My idea, originally, before I knew what revision was, was that I would read a scene and rewrite it from scratch, telling the same story but in new words. Don’t know if that would help me. OMG I’m so out of my depth. At least I’m not getting graded, right?

My goal is to have my third draft, Cassidy2, done by the next Writers’ Group meetup in the end of June. I think it might be possible? I might also be proposing that I could have the Ark done by the end of June. We’ll see. Wish me luck!

Hiatus continued

I have deeply enjoyed my month of break from my novel. Indulging in self-loathing-free video game time has been a blessing. I’ve forgotten what my novel is even about while at the same time seeing, at a distance, some of its weaknesses and realizing some ways to make it better. Also, I’ve had the beginnings of an entirely new and different idea percolating in my head, which is pretty huge for me, considering.

We had our writers’ group meetup on Sunday. Branden had finished his draft and posted it all in enough time that everyone had read it for the meetup, so it was “the one” for both of us: the meetup that would prove most helpful because the beta readers have finally seen the whole picture and can review based on that. I really, really need to get better about writing down questions in advance for my group, because I always think some up and then forget what they were by the time group rolls around.

In lieu of my own questions that I thought up, I sent out a link to a list of “fifteen questions to ask your beta readers.” It’s better than nothing, but a lot of them were sorta iffy considering that my girls have been reading this draft since January and the beginning is probably a bit hazy at this point. Still, I sent it out and hopefully a couple of them will be able to get back to me with some answers. I also know that at least Rachel is planning on rereading it and giving comprehensive feedback, a service for which I really, really should be paying her, and am intellectually and spiritually indebted to her for insisting on providing it for free. (The same goes for anyone else who would do that for me. Thank you, in advance, so very very much.)

Which brings me to the fraught topic of feedback. I love feedback. Can’t get enough of it. In particular, I love critical feedback; meaning that I really like it when people can tell me what things they didn’t like or that didn’t work for them. That’s because, I know that my book isn’t perfect, that it’s very far from perfect. I’m trying to train myself out of the habit of poisoning the well before a meetup and saying “I’m aware I could be worldbuilding more” because that tells people that they don’t need to mention it—even if they were going to. I want to hear them tell me this, because if I tell them in advance, then I can’t know if it’s something they would have mentioned. And without people telling me what didn’t work for them, I don’t know where to start. Is that thing that really irks me something that my readers really enjoy? Or vice-versa? I have a very hard time working with “everything was great, I loved all of it!” at this stage, when I know it’s not finished.

Happily for me, I did get a fair amount of critical feedback. Not as much as I would have if everyone had read it all of-a-piece before the meetup like they did with Cassidy0, but definitely a starting place.

Thematically similar: I think that it is a reflex, when one finishes a creative work, to immediately believe that it is terrible. I don’t think it’s something you can control. You’ve been spending a massive amount of time and internal energy on a thing, and suddenly it’s gone—it’s almost like you’ve broken up with someone. Things rush in to fill that gap. There’s emotional backlash. It’s normal. It’s also very important to realize that it’s a physical reaction, not a truth. You will probably never believe that your work is as good as it could be; as good as it looked on the shelf of your brain. Your readers never saw it in its original packaging. They will never know how far short you fell. They will also never look as closely at it as you have. Don’t make their minds up for them in advance. Can you imagine how bleak the world would be if a story was only told when the writer was 100% satisfied with it? Beowulf wouldn’t exist.

You will probably be able to read your book with a glow of pride some years after you’ve pushed it out of the nest. You’ll like the nicks and dents. In the end, that’s part of what makes it what it is. But even if you hate it with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, you should still push it out of the nest. Someone will love it.

Next Monday, I will be dusting off Cassidy1: rereading, making notes, etc. I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to start making changes. I’ve never gotten to a real second draft before. I’m nervous. Wish me luck!

MuckFest revisited

I wanted to blog about this on Sunday (or even Saturday), while it was fresh in my mind, but I didn’t. And then I didn’t on Monday. Or Tuesday. I really wish I had, because things have gone a little fuzzy at this point. I’ll try to do it justice, though.

The forecast for the day was high of 54°, 80% chance of rain. The obstacle course involves getting extremely muddy, and often wet. I was sublimating my stress about the possibility of hypothermia as well as I could, and everyone who talked to me about it made sure to tell me that they “may be skipping all the mud this year,” to which I replied, “feel free; I know I will be.” However, when we actually got to the course, it was a lot warmer than I’d expected and rain seemed unlikely. Everyone was arriving in plenty of time and everyone was happy to be there—what could possibly be better?

I’ll tell you!

The last group of people trickled in, and I could see at a distance that they were wearing bright green t-shirts. To myself, I thought, “Aha!!!” I had hope burgeoning in my breast. Perhaps, someone had come up with a way for us to see each other at a distance. Squinting, I could see that there was some kind of printing on them, at which point, I thought, “uh oh…” because my snails art has historically been legen… wait for it… dary. I felt a stab of jealousy that someone had usurped my throne. However, when they came within viewing range I saw that the art was faithful in its rendition, but just different enough that it was a clear homage, not an original Conley. I squealed and greedily grabbed my shirt, but then, from the depths of a duffel, emerged the true headliner of the day: heavy-duty, unbelievably pro-looking eyestalks.

How could this be.

My friends, who are amazing, had all been working overtime to produce team t-shirts and eyestalks, because they knew I hadn’t mustered the will to make anything this year. I was (and am) incredibly touched, for reals. It’s an amazing feeling to know that if you drop the ball, someone is there to pick it up. So, Steph, Carlie, Shad, Chris, Dan, and anyone else who helped that I don’t know about, thank you so much, it really means the world to me, sincerely. *big wet sloppy kisses*

Though I could gush more, I think I’ll move on to try to describe the race.

This year has been very rainy, so they delivered on their promise of mud better than they have in other years past. There was a long “mud river” on an extended downhill stretch that I found to be delightful, and I kept making references to Artax and the Swamp of Sadness (in case you didn’t catch it, Racing Snails is from The Neverending Story, too). There was a later part in which the mud came up to the upper thigh (and the water, above the waist) that was more Swamp of Sadness-y, but why take the risk? Anytime you can reference Artax, do so, sez I. I thought that this year’s obstacles were more fun and challenging and less focused on getting wet than it has been in the past, so that was really nice, considering the temperature of the day.

Which is not to say that there weren’t “get wet” obstacles. Most of us skipped the one that was just “jump off a high place into a deep pool of freezing-ass water” with no regrets at all. That’s the only one I skipped, though, and kudos to me, because rope ladders freak me out for no good reason.

As we neared the finish line, the clouds started rolling in and the temperature started dropping. There was an obstacle that required riding a zip line to the end and then plunging into water for the last few feet—there was no way to avoid it. Sadly, we hit that obstacle just as the sun went behind the clouds, so those of us who participated spent the rest of the race several degrees colder than we’d been up to that point. After that, there were three more obstacles in quick succession, then the merciful finish line.

Sadly, the tribulations didn’t end there. The worst part of the course came after the race was over, this year, and it was brutal.

We were already wet and cold, and covered in mud from head to toe. Our only option for getting clean was this communal shower area that consisted of hoses with spray nozzles hooked up to the Devil’s ice machine. I tried stripping down to my sports bra to rinse off, but at that point I realized that I’d left my towel over in the base camp, and the wind had started blowing. When I got back to the base for my towel, I had given up on the idea of getting clean and was focusing on not freezing solid.

I managed to change clothes somewhat successfully in the changing tent. I somehow managed to lose my sports bra, but I think I’ll live. When I took my clothes off, you pretty much couldn’t tell; I was a uniform brown color. I hated putting clothes on over that. Plus, I was still cold. We stayed a bit longer for the free lunch and getting swag, but my teeth didn’t stop chattering until I was back in the car with the heater blasting.

When Branden and I got home, I rinsed our mucky clothes on the driveway with my garden hose. Then, we stripped directly into the washing machine. We showered, soaping and shampooing twice, until finally we felt un-mud-golemed, if somewhat exfoliated. We washed our clothes twice, too—and unfortunately, it looks like the stains are never coming out of the beautiful shirts. Sad, but it was so great to have them anyway.

I was surprised by how human I felt. In previous years, all I had wanted to do post-MuckFest is watch TV until I fell asleep (moments later), but this time, I felt… pretty fine. It wasn’t until about 6:30 that my eyes started to feel tired. We hit the sack pretty early and slept like rocks.

Sunday, I was sore. My right elbow felt overextended and both my forearms were complaining. I was comparing bruises and scrapes with my brothers at Sam’s #3 and plotting next year’s shirt and fundraising incentives in my head. Okay, MuckFest 2016, bring it on!

Muck Festival

The time has come once again for the annual recognition of my MS. I try not to do it more often than that, because why would I? It’s kind of a bummer. Of course, this year’s festival is happening a mere eight months after last year’s, so… there’s that. But you see, this skullduggery caused me to short-circuit on the fundraising front, and the shirt-design front, and the team-building front… basically on all fronts except for the actual signing-up-for-it front. Much to my surprise, my team, the Racing Snails, has still raised over one thousand dollars, no thanks to me. Great job, team!

If it weren’t for climate change, having the MuckFest in May would probably be a good idea. However, those of you in Colorado will know that this year has been… a bit schizophrenic, weather-wise. Eighty degree days in February, snow in May, eighty degrees again, and then this Saturday in Larkspur (when/where the event is held) will be fifty-four degrees and raining (eighty percent likelihood). So, hilariously cold. But we Snails shall prevail! We are mighty! We are… crazy! And we will probably be popsicles! So… pray for us!

For anyone reading this who doesn’t already know, the MuckFest is a mud obstacle course that raises money for the National MS Society, and I’ve participated three times so far. Every year, it’s fun and challenging and epic. Last year, we raised enough money to win the use of a GoPro camera (in addition to the GoPro camera my teammate already owns, so two GoPro cameras, ah ah ah). We made an excellent video chronicling the various obstacles, which is certainly boring to everyone but us. I hope that they don’t decide to schedule the next MuckFest to be in four months or two months or two days or yesterday, because I’d very much like to make shirts for next time, as well as actually fundraise.

Prepping for the race is always stressful. It’s that thing where no matter how prepared I am, I always am sure that I’m forgetting something. I am the one who organizes where we meet. I am the one who sends out the email reminding people of what they need to bring and when they need to get there. And I end up feeling responsible if not everyone has as much fun as I would like—but, because I’m crazy, I don’t get to take the credit if they do have as much fun as I would like. The last few days have been exhausting, completely unrelated to the MuckFest, and I’m nervous about tomorrow. I just hope that everything goes smoothly and no one freezes to death.

So, dear readers, please support my team by visiting my page and clicking “Donate Now”, near the top right corner. Any size donation is wildly appreciated! And feel free to come spectate and cheer us on! Our wave begins at 9:30am. Hope to see some of you there!