Or: I feel opinionated today.
There is a piece in the Commentary section of the Christian Science Monitor today. "Bull's-eye for amateur book critics: An author warms up to her bad reviews on Amazon.com." (HERE) that harkens back to the discussion on David Anthony Durham's Blog about the Rise of the Cyber Critic.
"My first negative review on Amazon.com felt like a dagger to the heart." says Curtiss."
"Not even bestselling authors can escape being maligned by amateur critics whose time has come."
It seems the author doing the commentary takes exception to anyone reviewing her book that is not a 'professional'. My reply would be "Suck it up." People have opinions, people express opinions, the Internet just makes it easier to let a large segment of the universe know about your opinions. The world doesn't owe you pats on the back and fuzzy kittens. The authors I admire and hope to emulate someday are those that are gracious under fire, that realize you can't please all of the people all of the time, and project a Zen-like attitude towards reviews and criticisms.
"It's actually fun to read the ridiculous ones aloud to disbelieving friends. Positive reviews alone, unleavened by a little dissenting vitriol, are really rather boring. Imagine "American Idol" without Simon Cowell."
It's times like this that I think I should have completed my psychology degree but the Board of Psychology Examiners would frown on me smacking someone in the back of the head and saying, "Whatsa matta wid u? Grow up.".
Obsessing over the negative is counterproductive. I still hate getting rejection letters (emails), but that's the way the business is. On the other hand, I dislike conflict and hate giving bad news, so maybe that makes me the wuss here. Critiquing is an art form in itself, one that you have to actively master. It's far easier to roll your eyes at critics because they don't understand your brilliance. Much harder to smile and say, "You may have a point. I'll take that under consideration for next time."
I know my biggest barriers on the Eightfold Path are Right Speech, and Right Effort. Bad reviews hurt, and I can sympathize... but I still don't like whining.
So David, Scott, Kris, thanks for having the class you do in your public relations and blogs. As a reader, writer, and 'amateur critic', I appreciate it.
-- There's no CRYING in baseball!-- (A League Of Their Own)
29 May 2007
26 May 2007
A Poem For Midge
When East Moves West, The Sun Stands Still
by Constance Brewer
When you married a rancher and moved to Wyoming,
your mother clutched her chest, contemplated a heart
attack and proclaimed to all who would listen, "My
daughter, she could have been the next Marge Piercy
or Maya Angelou but, no. She moved to Wyoming."
The neighbors tried to comfort your mother. They offered
condolences, as if you died, or married outside the faith.
In the kitchen, under the cover of clinking wine glasses,
and the running dishwasher they whispered to each other;
"Is Wyoming a state or a territory? Is it Canadian?"
"She lives on a ranch? I bet they don't have indoor plumbing."
"Do they have to ride horses to town to use the phone?"
"Her daughter might as well live in Africa. Or Afghanistan."
"If she visits us, will she have to get shots? I hear Wyoming
has hantavirus and West Nile and even the plague..."
For a nation comfortable with John Wayne movies, the concept
of actually living in a western is stranger than a moon walk.
For years, you wrote, and tried to convince your mother that:
- Wyoming is not the edge of the world.
- Not everyone owns a gun. Or a horse.
- You don't have to chop wood unless you want to.
- That good writing is a state of mind not a state in the Union.
But each time you board a plane and fly home to visit, your mother
beats her chest, smoothes her clothes, and styles her hair, all while
wailing loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "My poor baby.
She could have been a contender! Instead, she lives in godforsaken
Wyoming."
by Constance Brewer
When you married a rancher and moved to Wyoming,
your mother clutched her chest, contemplated a heart
attack and proclaimed to all who would listen, "My
daughter, she could have been the next Marge Piercy
or Maya Angelou but, no. She moved to Wyoming."
The neighbors tried to comfort your mother. They offered
condolences, as if you died, or married outside the faith.
In the kitchen, under the cover of clinking wine glasses,
and the running dishwasher they whispered to each other;
"Is Wyoming a state or a territory? Is it Canadian?"
"She lives on a ranch? I bet they don't have indoor plumbing."
"Do they have to ride horses to town to use the phone?"
"Her daughter might as well live in Africa. Or Afghanistan."
"If she visits us, will she have to get shots? I hear Wyoming
has hantavirus and West Nile and even the plague..."
For a nation comfortable with John Wayne movies, the concept
of actually living in a western is stranger than a moon walk.
For years, you wrote, and tried to convince your mother that:
- Wyoming is not the edge of the world.
- Not everyone owns a gun. Or a horse.
- You don't have to chop wood unless you want to.
- That good writing is a state of mind not a state in the Union.
But each time you board a plane and fly home to visit, your mother
beats her chest, smoothes her clothes, and styles her hair, all while
wailing loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "My poor baby.
She could have been a contender! Instead, she lives in godforsaken
Wyoming."
21 May 2007
17 May 2007
Wanted: Map to My Thought Process
I was digging through my short story folder and found some snippets, a paragraph here, an opening sentence there. Most of the time the light bulb goes off and I think, "hey, I remember that idea" and I earmark it for further development. No so with one story. I opened it, read the paragraph, and it was an utter mystery. I didn't recognize the writing, or the voice. It could have been written by a stranger. It was some urban paranormal hallucination fic. With coffee. I didn't have a clue as to the intent or theme. Not a caffeine induced glimmer. But the paragraph that was there was interesting, in a disturbed sort of way. It even had a title.
I plugged the keyword from the title into Google and bingo, more science info than I could handle. Interesting stuff. I cut and pasted into a file, tagged it for reference, sat back and realized I still had no clue as to why I wanted to write about that topic, let alone what to write. I put the information on the brain back burner and turned to the historical short story I meant to work on, only to find the evil science information I spent an hour looking up pushed the history fic idea across my brain and right out my other ear. I had the characters, I had the time period, I just had no story. I swear I had a story in mind before I opened the evil paranormal short. Apparently the history fic idea was like a vampire, exposed to the hard sunlight it vanished in a puff of dirt. Which explains the smudges on my keyboard.
For a moment I grew excited, maybe I was meant to combine the paranormal and the history fic into one grand story, rift with doppelgangers, swords, and mocha lattes. I thought about that a while. Probably for far longer than any sane individual would. Then, as the dogs knocked the back porch screen off its tracks in their haste to go outside and bark at the neighbors, I had an epiphany. I had just finished a short story and turned it in. The novel mocked me from a safe place in its folder, poems did the can-can on my bookshelf. From my peripheral vision, I saw him.
I was a victim of the Procrastination Gnome. He's back from vacation, sunburnt, and he's got a plan.
But so do I.
And it involves coffee.
I plugged the keyword from the title into Google and bingo, more science info than I could handle. Interesting stuff. I cut and pasted into a file, tagged it for reference, sat back and realized I still had no clue as to why I wanted to write about that topic, let alone what to write. I put the information on the brain back burner and turned to the historical short story I meant to work on, only to find the evil science information I spent an hour looking up pushed the history fic idea across my brain and right out my other ear. I had the characters, I had the time period, I just had no story. I swear I had a story in mind before I opened the evil paranormal short. Apparently the history fic idea was like a vampire, exposed to the hard sunlight it vanished in a puff of dirt. Which explains the smudges on my keyboard.
For a moment I grew excited, maybe I was meant to combine the paranormal and the history fic into one grand story, rift with doppelgangers, swords, and mocha lattes. I thought about that a while. Probably for far longer than any sane individual would. Then, as the dogs knocked the back porch screen off its tracks in their haste to go outside and bark at the neighbors, I had an epiphany. I had just finished a short story and turned it in. The novel mocked me from a safe place in its folder, poems did the can-can on my bookshelf. From my peripheral vision, I saw him.
I was a victim of the Procrastination Gnome. He's back from vacation, sunburnt, and he's got a plan.
But so do I.
And it involves coffee.
15 May 2007
Short Stories, Chainsaws, and Rewrites
I've been having an interesting time with short stories. One was a fantasy I labored over for months, tweaking here and there, pulling the old poetry 'put a comma in here, take a word out there' game. I submitted it to an anthology. The editor asked for another look if I would rewrite the ending. I rewrote the ending and liked how it came out, but it still didn't quite fit what he had in mind for the anthology. Too philosophical. Fair enough. I think it has potential, after a cooling off period, I find places I can snip and retool. It weighs in a tad over 5000 words.
After pondering the whole thing, and with some lovely personal advice from the editor, I am going to target it to another market. After studying that market, I think I need to expand the story in two places, not cut. The other market's word count is not as stringent, so I'll have more room to play. My instinct on the initial reject was to take a chainsaw to the story and lop off limbs. I still plan to tighten in places, but looking for spots to slip in description is harder than I thought. I resorted to writing my theme and goal on a sticky note and posting it on my comp, so when I rewrite I see it. Is what I'm inserting adding to the theme? All part of my goal to write a little smarter, and thereby faster, I hope. The procrastination gnome is insidious and must be defeated.
I set the 5000 word story aside, then got an idea for another short story covering the same theme. I wrote it in a weekend and submitted it. I am not a particularly fast writer, not usually, but all the fine tuning on the previous story got my brain in the proper mode to write right. So to speak. I had a beginning, middle, end, and it could be done under 3000 words. I did it in under 2500 words. Still having a hard time breaking that 2000 word mark. I like setup that doesn't feel abrupt and leisurely transitions. I hate stories where I get whiplash from the scene changes. After playing around with pruning words, I see more clearly how to cut extraneous stuff and have a coherent story. I'm learning.
This story is almost there. I'm doing a rewrite on a small area. This editor went above and beyond a mere rejection, he explained what didn't work and why, and is willing to look at a rewrite because everything else flows for him. He pinpointed the problem in a sentence. The spot that he disliked was a place I wasn't happy about. Now I know why. It didn't work. It was lazy writing in an otherwise strong piece. Each time I fix errors like this, hopefully the process sticks in my brain, and I learn to write faster and smarter. And quit thinking so hard about it. It ain't rocket science. At least not this week.
After pondering the whole thing, and with some lovely personal advice from the editor, I am going to target it to another market. After studying that market, I think I need to expand the story in two places, not cut. The other market's word count is not as stringent, so I'll have more room to play. My instinct on the initial reject was to take a chainsaw to the story and lop off limbs. I still plan to tighten in places, but looking for spots to slip in description is harder than I thought. I resorted to writing my theme and goal on a sticky note and posting it on my comp, so when I rewrite I see it. Is what I'm inserting adding to the theme? All part of my goal to write a little smarter, and thereby faster, I hope. The procrastination gnome is insidious and must be defeated.
I set the 5000 word story aside, then got an idea for another short story covering the same theme. I wrote it in a weekend and submitted it. I am not a particularly fast writer, not usually, but all the fine tuning on the previous story got my brain in the proper mode to write right. So to speak. I had a beginning, middle, end, and it could be done under 3000 words. I did it in under 2500 words. Still having a hard time breaking that 2000 word mark. I like setup that doesn't feel abrupt and leisurely transitions. I hate stories where I get whiplash from the scene changes. After playing around with pruning words, I see more clearly how to cut extraneous stuff and have a coherent story. I'm learning.
This story is almost there. I'm doing a rewrite on a small area. This editor went above and beyond a mere rejection, he explained what didn't work and why, and is willing to look at a rewrite because everything else flows for him. He pinpointed the problem in a sentence. The spot that he disliked was a place I wasn't happy about. Now I know why. It didn't work. It was lazy writing in an otherwise strong piece. Each time I fix errors like this, hopefully the process sticks in my brain, and I learn to write faster and smarter. And quit thinking so hard about it. It ain't rocket science. At least not this week.
12 May 2007
Roman Boar Print
In between removing water-soaked carpet from the mini flood last week that soaked my basement, fixing a hole in the roof (which reminded me I hate heights), I managed to get the Year of the Boar prints done. Nothing like a postage increase to give you motivation.
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Color 1 - Burnt Siena
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Color 2 - Alizarian Crimson
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Color 3 - Violet + white
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Final Color - Black
All things considered, I didn't care for the paper. A little too lightweight for my tastes. Once I conquer my registration problems, I'll give Moku Hanga another shot. I did the moku hanga methods on this print, except for using lino instead of wood.
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Color 1 - Burnt Siena
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.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Color 2 - Alizarian Crimson
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Color 3 - Violet + white
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.
.
.
.
.
Final Color - Black
All things considered, I didn't care for the paper. A little too lightweight for my tastes. Once I conquer my registration problems, I'll give Moku Hanga another shot. I did the moku hanga methods on this print, except for using lino instead of wood.
10 May 2007
Poetry vs. Prose: Reading The Iliad
I've been rereading The Iliad. It's one of my Reread Once A Year Books. My translation is by Robert Fagles and while satisfactory, I find myself longing for the Shakespearean overtones of a more poetic interpretation. At least I thought I did. After poking about on the Internet, I found the verse versions translated by Alexander Pope and Ian Johnson, and the prose interpretation by Samuel Butler.
What's the difference? I think I bring different expectations to a poetry work than I do a prose work. It's not just that poetry doesn't fill the page, it's that poetry seems to depend on a richer imagery than a prose work. Poetry compresses thoughts to a narrower focus (perhaps that expectation thing) and the prose has a more leisurely build up. Every sound, every word in poetry is calculated for effect (or should be). I'm not as aware of this when I write fiction as when I write poetry. When I write poetic verse the emotion of the piece is paramount, not so much when I write novels or stories.
Poetry is a souped-up Mustang driving past the police station with one tail light out. Prose is a Cadillac on the Interstate headed for a nearby town. At least that's how it seems to me. Although I love reading Shakespeare, some days the overly flowery language is just one more thing I don't want to wade through. I also don't care for modern day four-letter-word fests in my reading. So where does that leave me? Buying multiple translations of The Iliad. Because I don't own enough books, especially multiple copies of the same one.
Each translation offers a different interpretation of events. While essentially the same, they offer enough variation for a word fanatic to feast on for many a thought. Hence the once a year reread. It's the same with poetry, by giving myself distance from the work, I find new understanding as my experiences throughout the year color my interpretation. I'll be rereading the same book the rest of my life, an alternatively cool and scary prospect.
(Verse Form)
The Iliad, Book I
Translated by Alexander Pope
Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumber'd, heavenly goddess, sing!
That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign
The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain;
Whose limbs unburied on the naked shore,
Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore.(41)
Since great Achilles and Atrides strove,
Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove!(42)
(Verse Form)
The Iliad, Book I
Translation by Ian Johnston:
Sing, Goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus—
that murderous anger which condemned Achaeans
to countless agonies and threw many warrior souls
deep into Hades, leaving their dead bodies
carrion food for dogs and birds—
all in fulfillment of the will of Zeus.
(Prose Form)
The Iliad, Book I
Translated by Samuel Butler
Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that
brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did
it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a
prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove
fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men,
and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.
What's the difference? I think I bring different expectations to a poetry work than I do a prose work. It's not just that poetry doesn't fill the page, it's that poetry seems to depend on a richer imagery than a prose work. Poetry compresses thoughts to a narrower focus (perhaps that expectation thing) and the prose has a more leisurely build up. Every sound, every word in poetry is calculated for effect (or should be). I'm not as aware of this when I write fiction as when I write poetry. When I write poetic verse the emotion of the piece is paramount, not so much when I write novels or stories.
Poetry is a souped-up Mustang driving past the police station with one tail light out. Prose is a Cadillac on the Interstate headed for a nearby town. At least that's how it seems to me. Although I love reading Shakespeare, some days the overly flowery language is just one more thing I don't want to wade through. I also don't care for modern day four-letter-word fests in my reading. So where does that leave me? Buying multiple translations of The Iliad. Because I don't own enough books, especially multiple copies of the same one.
Each translation offers a different interpretation of events. While essentially the same, they offer enough variation for a word fanatic to feast on for many a thought. Hence the once a year reread. It's the same with poetry, by giving myself distance from the work, I find new understanding as my experiences throughout the year color my interpretation. I'll be rereading the same book the rest of my life, an alternatively cool and scary prospect.
(Verse Form)
The Iliad, Book I
Translated by Alexander Pope
Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring
Of woes unnumber'd, heavenly goddess, sing!
That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign
The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain;
Whose limbs unburied on the naked shore,
Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore.(41)
Since great Achilles and Atrides strove,
Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove!(42)
(Verse Form)
The Iliad, Book I
Translation by Ian Johnston:
Sing, Goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus—
that murderous anger which condemned Achaeans
to countless agonies and threw many warrior souls
deep into Hades, leaving their dead bodies
carrion food for dogs and birds—
all in fulfillment of the will of Zeus.
(Prose Form)
The Iliad, Book I
Translated by Samuel Butler
Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that
brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did
it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a
prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove
fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men,
and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.
07 May 2007
Not My Ideal Job
Part of my job involves counseling people on What They Want To Be When They Grow Up, I thought I'd seen most of the weird and quirky jobs out there. After all, I live in an area where it's okay to play with dump trucks for a living. (240 ton trucks but... still a giant Tonka toy)
For the record,this video shows exactly what I DON'T want in a job. Funny, the guy in the video doesn't seem at all perturbed.
For the record,this video shows exactly what I DON'T want in a job. Funny, the guy in the video doesn't seem at all perturbed.
01 May 2007
Now For Something Completely Different
I should be writing. I'm on a roll, things are flowing, good guys are suffering, demons are demoning... but I also have a print to get out. Luckily, I can divide my evening between carving the print and writing. Oh, and editing a poem. Sleep is overrated anyhow.
Since this is The Year Of The Boar, I am doing a printmaking exchange through the Baren Forum. The theme? Year Of The Boar. I've done Year of the Dog (2006) and Year of the Horse (2002).
The idea is to make a bunch of little postcards on the theme, and mail them off to other printmakers around the world who sign up for the exchange. After playing with different ideas, I ended up with a Roman Boar from a mosaic that I liked.
First step was to sketch what I wanted.
I did some clean up in Painter, dropping out the gray tones and increasing contrast, then printed out the sketch to use as a basis for carving my lino block. Someday I will get braver and delve back into Moku Hanga, but not this print. I'm comfortable with lino blocks and like the graphic representation they produce.
Next, I did a color sketch to see how I wanted the final print to look.
Depending on the inks I have, I can approximate the colors. Not sure about the purple, but I'll figure something out.
I carved out the first part of the boar. I decided to do a color reduction print - no guts, no glory. This means I will work from light to dark on the print, overlaying colors as I go, and carving away the things I want to stay the previous color. I need to make 65 prints, so a reduction print may be stupid on my part, but I want to give it a shot. In the first block, I carved away everything I want to remain white or the paper color. The boar is facing backwards, when I print him, he'll turn around the way I want him to face. For a spatial dyslexic, printmaking can be nervewracking at times - backwards is correct and letters get carved in reverse. Hence the layout before hand. Saves me a lot of miscarved blocks.
Next time: Paper, First color prints, block two.
Since this is The Year Of The Boar, I am doing a printmaking exchange through the Baren Forum. The theme? Year Of The Boar. I've done Year of the Dog (2006) and Year of the Horse (2002).
The idea is to make a bunch of little postcards on the theme, and mail them off to other printmakers around the world who sign up for the exchange. After playing with different ideas, I ended up with a Roman Boar from a mosaic that I liked.
First step was to sketch what I wanted.
I did some clean up in Painter, dropping out the gray tones and increasing contrast, then printed out the sketch to use as a basis for carving my lino block. Someday I will get braver and delve back into Moku Hanga, but not this print. I'm comfortable with lino blocks and like the graphic representation they produce.
Next, I did a color sketch to see how I wanted the final print to look.
Depending on the inks I have, I can approximate the colors. Not sure about the purple, but I'll figure something out.
I carved out the first part of the boar. I decided to do a color reduction print - no guts, no glory. This means I will work from light to dark on the print, overlaying colors as I go, and carving away the things I want to stay the previous color. I need to make 65 prints, so a reduction print may be stupid on my part, but I want to give it a shot. In the first block, I carved away everything I want to remain white or the paper color. The boar is facing backwards, when I print him, he'll turn around the way I want him to face. For a spatial dyslexic, printmaking can be nervewracking at times - backwards is correct and letters get carved in reverse. Hence the layout before hand. Saves me a lot of miscarved blocks.
Next time: Paper, First color prints, block two.
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