Category Archives: books

It’s Been A Long Road

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So here I am, stuck in the middle of a road that runs all directions at once. I’m nearly done with my novel, and the prospect of finishing is looming large above an inescapable horizon. I’ve learned a lot about writing in the last month, and a lot about what motivates me and inspires me. There’s a big difference between what you love to write, and what you want to write.

tumblr_lrsfuv118r1r1xia1My book, for example, is a sci-fi book. It’s fun, it’s interesting, and it takes all the imagination I have to keep it going and imbue it with life and make it real. But I’m also becoming more aware that fantasy, sci-fi, these are things that, try as we might to fight reality, don’t exist. And because of this, there will always be a disconnect with the reader. A part of them that will be unable to connect with what you’re writing. Because it’s never happened to them. It’s never happened to anybody. They don’t understand it.

We do understand our own lives though. Or at least, we’re familiar with how they work and what happens and our own mistakes and screw ups and successes and triumphs and heartbreaks. That is all well and good, we know that stuff. And the more I realise this, the more it seems like that’s the kind of story I should be writing. Because I feel it, inside, that there is this truth behind the curtain of daily living that wants to be captured.

Hemingway captured it, for sure. I’m reading Bukowski right now, he got it too. Bukowski is like if Hemingway had written smut. It’s dark, it’s dirty, it’s gritty. I don’t honestly know if I like it, but it’s fascinating, and it’s real. That’s the kind of story I want to write. Something that grabs you by the balls and says no, this is what it’s about, go ahead and try and deny me but I’ll be here whether you like it or not.

Anyways. I’m writing, I’m reading, and living and learning. I’ve started going sailing recently. It’s fun.

all we wanna do is share

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isn’t that the point? As writers, singers, actors, musicians—all we wanna do is share what we feel, what’s going on in our heads, what we feel that can’t be expressed in any other way.

I was just watching Smash, and this girl got up and started singing in the middle of this crowded room at a party. Everyone gathered around and was listening and nodding their heads. Obviously this is just a show, and they’re actors, but that’s not the point.

p159-1-jpgThey’re doing that because that’s what real people would do. At least, that’s what I’d do. When I see someone expressing that ineffable thing inside, a street artist making a painting, a musician in a crowded subway, just someone putting themselves out there and exposing that raw, tingling nerve that vibrates to that unknown chord of humanity that we all share.

It’s something magical, and it’s something we all have, and that’s what so wonderful. I love that. I love sharing that. I love feeling it. What an incredible gift we have, to be able to share that feeling, or even just a tiny piece of it, with others. To make others hear that singing that only we hear, to see the colours that only we see, to live in the world that only we know about.

John Steinbeck

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Ever since I read East of Eden in like grade 11 it’s been one of my favourite books. I’ve never read anything else by Steinbeck, I’ve always meant to, but he’s remained someone to whom I ascribe brilliant writing to.

In any case, the other night I went to visit a relative just up the coast about half an hour and after dinner we got to talking books. Being a writer, I think I naturally have the instinct to steer all conversations in this direction—much as a boxer or engineer might direct the focus towards the latest matches or innovations in airframe technology or the sturdiest rivets or something. I don’t know. I’m not an engineer. In any case, they mentioned that my maternal grandfather was a friend of John Steinbeck.

SteinbeckApparently the two of them used to go boating and fishing together, and had a good friendship that lasted many years. A trophy of this friendship happened to be a book, Sweet Thursday, that Steinbeck had autographed for my grandfather.

I was thrilled to hold such a valuable little artefact in my hands. Simply knowing that one of my favourite authors had been a friend of the family was thrilling enough, but to actually have a relic of those days was enormously exciting. It reminds me of the associations of Hemingway with Gertrude Stein and Picasso and F. Scott Fitzgerald and all the others.

I wonder if someday I’ll be friends with a famous author or artist and can simply call on them for tea or a drive up the coast to our favourite cafe. Or perhaps, better yet, people will speak with reverence as they hold a book by Pearson Sharp, autographed to their grandfather, and they try to imagine what it might have been like to know me. An author can dream.

One Lego at a Time

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So there’s this book called “Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life,” by Anne Lamott, and it’s fantastic. I highly recommend picking it up, if only for the anecdotal stories. Anne is a brilliant writer with a calm, engaging style that makes her advice all the more resonant. She’s someone who “gets” what being a writer is all about. And why shouldn’t she? As I was reading it last night, I kept nodding thinking yes, yes, this is exactly what it’s like.

“…as the panic mounts and the jungle drums begin beating and I realize that the well has run dry and that my future is behind me and I’m going to have to get a job only I’m completely unemployable…”

I don’t think you can really say you’re a writer unless you sit there night after night and wonder what you’re doing with your life, where your degree has gone, and how you’re going to pay the bills. If there isn’t some anxiety building in the back of your mind as to whether or not you’re going to make it and oh-my-god-what-will-the-world-think-of-me, you simply aren’t putting your heart into it.

490d9dfb26a34e8914d017dc7835084e-d5r4gsgI think we’ve all been there. It’s terrifying, but that gives us fuel. At least, it does for me. I reminds me that the only thing that can pull me through is myself, and I know I’ve got my back. Anne suggests that all you have to do is write enough to fill one little picture frame.

When you sit down to write, all you have to do is tell enough to describe what you can see inside that little picture frame. Just that much, that’s all. So it’s not insurmountable, you aren’t climbing Everest, you’re just going for a walk. You’re stretching your legs, seeing what the world looks like today. It’s not scary, it’s exciting. And yeah, it’s often a matter of viewpoint, you can definitely psych yourself out and into a place where you can’t write. So relax.

“E. L. Doctorow once said that ‘writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.’ You don’t have to see where you’re going, you don’t have to see your des­tination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice about writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

And I have to agree. Which is difficult when you’re writing an epic space opera novel, but it’s still true. It builds up piece by piece, bit by bit, until you’re there. It’s the old brick by brick analogy. When I was a kid, I loved to play with Legos. I remember one day they were scattered all over my room from a great afternoon of castle building, and my mom told me it was time to go and I had to clean up. I looked around the room and was completely overwhelmed. How could I possibly clean up all of those Legos? I tried picking them up one at a time and putting them into the bucket, and I realised it would take me forever.

My mom laughed and showed me how to start in sections and scoop the Legos up into big piles, then dump them into the bucket that way. I was done in no time, and it changed how I approached room cleaning and Legos and life forever. Don’t sweat the small stuff with your writing. It’ll come together, I promise. Just put the words down on the page, let it flow, and you can clean up the mess later. It’s far easier to let it flow than it is to tug it forcefully out of yourself, striving for that right word or phrase. That’ll come later. Just get the ideas out and down and move on.  Don’t be afraid to write badly, you’ll know the difference afterwards far better than you will in the heat of the creative moment.

In any case, I suppose all this is just a little pep talk for myself, really. Keep going, keep it up, and don’t worry what it’s all mounting towards. If you put in the effort, the time, and your heart is in it, you’ll succeed. And why wouldn’t your heart be in it? You’re writing because you want to, right? No one’s making you. So have no fear. Your story will be told, even if you have to drive all night through the fog with only a few feet of visibility and no idea where you’re going. You’ll get there.

From the Ground Up

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In keeping with my new resolution (unrelated to the New Year) to participate in the upkeep of my site more rigorously, I was perusing some articles this morning and came across an interesting post by Jennie Nash.

Jennie is a six time published author, with publishers such as Simon and Schuster, Penguin, and Scribner to her name. If I could claim any one of those I’d feel like quite the success. However, she decided to branch out on her own and give self-publishing a whirl. She discovered some things along the way that surprised her, and are certainly worth checking out her article for.

The biggest lesson, however, is that even someone with her experience in the industry and her contacts and all the wealth of resources available to her—even with all of this, she still found publishing her own novel to be incredibly difficult. The audience base she believed she had simply was not there, and she had to hit the streets to do all of her own marketing.

This doesn’t come entirely as a surprise to me. Not that I know something she doesn’t, but as someone who hasn’t “made it”, I suppose I’ve prepared myself for quite the struggle ahead. Stories of hardships to come aren’t really all that shocking, and I’m more than aware that the road to getting my first novel published will be something of an uphill battle, to say the least.

I’m going to do my best to get this beast published with a traditional publisher. Not necessarily because I think it’s the most feasible way to go, but because as someone hoping to become a professor, I need a piece of work published by the industry. It’s really not all that credible to publish your own book and then bam, claim you’re a published author. Like Jennie said, that doesn’t really make you any different from the crazy cat lady down the street writing books about petunias. You need peer recognition.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking self-publishing at all. Eventually, that’s probably what I’ll end up doing as well. But I’ve got to get that recognition first, that acknowledgement from the writing community at large, before I’ll feel comfortable enough to settle into my own peculiar routine and writing all the strange books no publisher would dare touch.

That said, it’s a long road either way. But like John Burroughs said, with determination and resolve to see it through, nothing can keep my own from me.

Once More Unto The Breach

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So, I’m a bad person.

Well, perhaps not entirely, only mostly. It’s been a long, cold, wintry two months since my last update here on the site. There’s a lot of reasons and explanations that I could give you about that, not the least of which is that I knocked out a huge chunk of my book in the mean time, and subsequently gave myself a long, very long respite from almost anything writing related.

It’s good to take a break and get away from the material from time to time, if only to give yourself some perspective. But I think two months is more than enough time to get some distance and proper outlook on whatever it is you’re doing. People have climbed mountains in less time! But writing is not climbing mountains. It’s more like cave diving, and if you’re not careful you get lost, and run out of air, and have to come back up to breathe. And once you’ve come back up, it’s always scary going back down again.

Ernest_Hemingway_Writing_at_Campsite_in_Kenya_-_NARA_-_192655In any case, I’ve had two months to contemplate the next phase of the book, and I’ve done a lot of research in that time. I managed to read a biography on Augustus Caesar, a chronicle on Colonel Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck, the German guerilla who gave the British so much trouble in East Africa during World War I, A Farewell to Arms (which is possibly the most gut wrenching book I’ve ever read), a history of the Russian Revolution, and another history about the tribe of Picts in Northern England during Roman times.

That’s a lot to digest! And with that research, I’ve managed to compile quite the compendious collection of notes and ideas and plots twists for the next part of the book, as well as the second novel in the trilogy. Time not wasted!

So that’s where I’m at right now. I give myself another couple of months, hopefully no more than two or three, and I’ll have the novel complete. Then it’s onto publishing, but that’s a horse of a different colour. But now I’m back on here, and the goal is to update far more frequently, get back into the swing of things, and knock this thing out of the park. The thought of a thing is often worse than the thing itself, and so it has been with this project. But no more. So once more unto the breach, dear friends, and get this damn thing done.

Of Mice, Cookie Jars, and Comedians

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In case you’re wondering where I’ve been (you don’t spend your days combing through the archives?), I’ve been buried deep in my book. I almost made that crazy deadline I set for myself, though I did get some other stuff done, and now I’ve got my nose to the grindstone and am trying to make this happen. No news to report, as of yet, though I’m going to start the writing for the day in a few minutes and I have a sneaking suspicion today might be the day I finish that part I’ve been working on for so long. I can’t reveal anything, but it’s big. Pivotal. Not the apex of the story, but certainly the part where it all “begins”. Hmmm. Maybe I should’ve started here 80,000 words ago? Well, we’ll see.

Believe me, I’ve seen worse

In any case, I wanted to impart a little wisdom today to whet your writing appetite. Jerry Seinfeld, of all people, had some interesting things to say on the topic, and it seems that he—as well as Frank Herbert, Jack London, and Neil Gaiman, all agree: just sit down and do it. “This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until its done. It’s that easy, and that hard,” Gaiman said, and I think he knows what he’s talking about. 

It doesn’t matter how you do it, just do it. Seinfeld actually tricked himself into writing, stashing cookies in his notebook. “An hour a day. That was my first goal. Ten hours a month. That’s not easy for someone starting out, and it took me a couple of years to accomplish. Sometimes I had to trick myself to get my­self to write. You wouldn’t believe the things I had to do to get myself to write. Sometimes I’d put the cookies by my notebook. It’s like a mousetrap — I go get the cookies, then I look in the note­book, and the next thing I know, I’m writing.“

It’s encouraging to know that even for someone as wildly talented and successful as Jerry Seinfeld, writing was a struggle. Self discipline is about the hardest thing to muster up I’ve ever come across, and sometimes looking at my computer chair is like contemplating a coffin–confining, restricting. But the point is, he did it. And I’m doing it, and everyone has done it. Well, everyone who amounted to anything. So you can to. It’s a hard thing to learn but it must be done if you want to pursue your dreams. Anyone can go into an office and have someone tell them what to do. That’s real, those consequences are tangible. But if you skip your writing session for a day? A week? Who will know? Who will care?

You will, and you owe it to yourself and everyone who will eventually read your work to get it done. This may sound like a stern lecture, but I’m also talking to myself. It’s important to be reminded how essential a good work ethic is, and how much of getting a book written is just sitting down and doing it. It’s not magic, it’s just work. But don’t despair, you’re in good company. I find I’m rather like George R. R. Martin in that respect when he said, “Some writers enjoy writing, I am told. Not me. I enjoy having written.” Absolutely. I enjoy having written. But to get there, you have to write.

There, I feel better. Well, off to get some writing done! Have a good one folks, I’ll catch up with you soon.

Give Up Sleep

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“For those many among us who would aim toward quality, there are standards. Performance in fine art is also measurable. For what it’s worth, here’s some moxie: Be a perennial student. Know what “brilliant” looks like. Be a discriminating connoisseur. Be both passionate and particular. Destroy your substandard work. Determine your own laws. Give up sleep.” ~ Robert Genn

Robert Genn is a Canadian artist of some renown, and his words here strike a particular chord with me. In a post today on his website The Painter’s Keys  he talks about a phenomenon known as “inner authority”. It’s a new term for a growing trend among burgeoning artists to disregard the conventions and traditions and standards of the past in favour of their own sense of worth and entitlement. What was once a discerning medium, such as fine art, has been paved over by artists (writers and musicians included) who are looking for a quick fix to get famous. They decry they old standards as tedious and lumbering, and designate themselves as avant-garde and new-age, and if you don’t get their work, you’re shouted down and told you just don’t have the eye for it.

Well, poppycock.

you aren’t alone

The great John Simon went into the topic at some length during an interview with Jon Winokur, in which he described the degradation of modern art, comparing it to something a child might produce. This is certainly true for modern authors, where the average adult reading level is roughly that of a sixth grader. How can the mind bending prose of London and Conrad compete with a modern attention span? Improving yourself, creating something worthwhile is a herculean effort that, as Robert Genn suggests, should be a perennial task. Cristian Mihai questions what the nature of art is, exactly, in his blog here. He asks if an artist simply calling his work “art” is enough for something to be art. It’s an eternal question, but perhaps “art” and “good art” are more easily distinguishable. Maybe this is the real question. But how to define it?

In my previous post about Lena Dunham‘s new found success as an author, I give a perfect example of a person with an aptitude for giving the people what they want, supplanting innumerous works of quality. The only real consolation is the thought that something meaningful, worthwhile and intelligent will at least have a quality of endurance about it. I’m pretty sure that long after Miss Dunham has died and is forgotten, high schoolers will still be reading Dickens and George Orwell. It just doesn’t do us struggling artists much good to hope for fame after death.

The only advice I have, the same that I keep telling myself, is that if something is good enough, it will shine through. Destroy your substandard work, as Genn says. Put out only your best, no matter what it is. Don’t take the quick and easy route and make shortcuts for yourself or refuse to accept criticism because you think that nobody “gets” what you’re about. No. Tear it down, break apart what you’ve down, be open to critique and accept that you aren’t the next Faulkner. You may be good, but you aren’t impervious to error, and once you accept that, you’ll begin the road towards making some truly great art.

Outside Your Door

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There was an interesting article over on Futurebook I read this evening about the changing nature of publishing. I’m sure it’s not anything surprising to anyone who’s in the know these days, which—if you’re online—is pretty much everyone. We all know how traditional publishing is being swept aside in favour of e-publishing and e-books and the like, but it’s still very enlightening to read how the whole process works from the publisher’s side of things. There’s a lot of risk and cost and development involved on their side as well, for each and every book that comes through their door.

I give you: Ernest Hemingway in the bathtub.

It’s difficult to bring a book to fruition, for anyone involved. For you, the author, it’s a labour of love and a brain-child that takes either months or years of hard work. For the publisher, it’s a means to make money, and it’s in their best interest to make sure you’re well represented and that they capture your good side, so to speak. In the face of the changing environment, it’s easy to get lost in the shuffle and see your work vanish forever because of a shifting tide on the business side. But here are some (mostly) encouraging words, straight from a publisher:

“This is not the right time to wait and see which direction things take, this is the time to experiment, to learn and to guide. Think in chances and opportunities, not in threats and fears. Not always visible to people outside of the publishing house, it doesn’t mean that we aren’t working hard on new developments, product forms, campaigns and business models.” ~Timo Boezeman, Futurebook

It’s a rapidly changing environment. Stick to doing what you do best: writing. Past that, roll with the punches and see where you land. Self-promotion is increasingly important, but the bottom line to any best-selling, successful novel is good writing—it’s the base on which all the marketing is built. Work on your foundation, and the rest will (with some luck) fall into place.

Hope Springs Eternal

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Jon Katz over at Bedlam Farm usually has interesting things to say about the life of a farmer, and often the life of a writer. He’s carved quite a niche for himself and gathered a serious following after starting his website and publishing a few books. He reminds me of a modern day James Herriot, for those of you who may remember him. A humble, honest man who works hard and knows the value of simple living. I recommend you check out his blog if you haven’t seen it already. In any case, in a recent post he talked about the difficulties of being a writer, even a moderately successful writer with several books under his belt.

“I was sitting in Battenkill Books with Connie Brooks yesterday afternoon, signing boxes and boxes of “Dancing Dogs,” and Connie and I turned to one another at almost the same time and said the same thing: if we are signing and selling so many books, how come we don’t have any money? We sure felt successful, even if our bank accounts suggested otherwise. We both cracked up at the same time, and then said the same thing again: “but we are happy!” So we are. This is the writer’s life and the booksellers, I think, so lucky to be doing what we love and yet always chasing the realities of life, like everyone else.
 
Every writer I know – surely including me – thinks of every new book as the “big” book, the “breakthrough” book, the one that will end all of the struggle with money and position for good, will etch his or her place in literary history. The “big” book, I have come to see, is en ephemera, another rescue fantasy. I don’t think in those terms much any longer, and that is healthy. My wish for “Dancing Dogs” is that it touches people, makes them laugh, smile, cry, think. From the lovely reviews, off to a good start. And perhaps if I don’t expect it to be a “big” book, it just might be. Hope springs eternal.”

This is something that I struggle with as well, the fear that even when I get my book finished, even when it’s polished and has some beautiful cover art and is as excellent as I can possibly make it—even then, it still won’t get published. Or, if it does, it will languish quietly on some back shelf or in a dark corner of the internet, never to be discovered. That is my worst fear. That after six years of toiling and struggling to get this book finished, it will all be for nothing. I suppose you might say that it isn’t entirely wasted, that I’ve created something, brought something else into the world that wasn’t there before that is entirely my own. But when you pin all your hopes and aspirations on the success of your magnum-opus, it’s a little crushing to find out that you’ve been wasting your time.

Hopefully it won’t come to that. Hopefully this will be the break I’m looking for, and will propel me to success and fame and fortune. In either case, it hasn’t happened yet, so I have only the future to look forward to, and I choose to see it as something bright and wonderful.