It's shameful; I haven't read a single one of them yet.
They stand there in a neat row, my little weather-beaten collection of vintage Penguin paperbacks, some with orange spines and some with light blue, and they make me happy just by being there. There is some Chesterton, some Walter de la Mare, Orwell and Capote, among others. I found them scattered on a dusty black tarp at the local Rotary Club bookfest, and they called out to my bulk-loving heart. Their sameness, their neatness, and that little Penguin symbol that generally guarantees a great read.
It was fill a bag for a dollar, an old gentleman with a white moustache told me, and I did. I filled my bags with those unloved paperbacks and took them home, dusted them off, and lined them up on my bookshelf. They make me smile when I see them.
And perhaps one day, maybe I will actually read them.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Monday, December 17, 2007
i meet the author
"And the good news," the function host is saying, "is that everyone gets to spend time with an author in their first genre preference selected."
What did I select? I wonder wildly. Oh yes. Young adult fiction.
"So if you can make your way over to the designated table, you can begin the discussion with your chosen authors."
There is a moment of self-conscious panic as I drag my chair over to the table with the 'young adult' poster on it. No one else is here. This could be an interesting discussion. Then the author makes her way over. She looks incredibly like Emma Thompson's author character in Stranger Than Fiction, only happier, more feminine and pretty. She speaks and the illusion remains, for she has a clear and articulate voice.
"It could be just us two."
"I know," I say, "and I'm terrified. I had planned to sit back and keep my mouth shut while everyone else asked you questions. I haven't prepared any questions of my own."
"And I haven't prepared any answers, either. Well we'll have a great chat, just the two of us."
But two more women appear, one an older lady who writes short stories occasionally, and the other a fairly loud woman who spends a lot of time talking about her mermaid novel. The author doesn't get to say a lot, but when she does, it is worth hearing. When we break for coffee, she leans over conspiratorially and says, "It would have been fun if it was just us."
We get chatting and I realise I am not disappointed the more I learn of this author. I admire her book and her experiences, but above all I realise that I greatly respect her perspective.
She asks about my own life and work and I share briefly of my family's gypsy travels and my homeschool years. Then I confess that my lack of real writing education sometimes saps my confidence.
"Don't let it," she says. She looks at me seriously. "I always say this: The craft of writing can be taught. But you cannot teach someone to be a writer. Some simply are and some are not, no matter how well they know their craft. To be a writer, you need something different. You need an unusual background, and you have it." She is speaking slowly and thoughtfully. "I can see that you have it. In your experience, you have everything you need."
From another, it might sound like idle praise. But coming from her, I believe it. It is a benediction.
What did I select? I wonder wildly. Oh yes. Young adult fiction.
"So if you can make your way over to the designated table, you can begin the discussion with your chosen authors."
There is a moment of self-conscious panic as I drag my chair over to the table with the 'young adult' poster on it. No one else is here. This could be an interesting discussion. Then the author makes her way over. She looks incredibly like Emma Thompson's author character in Stranger Than Fiction, only happier, more feminine and pretty. She speaks and the illusion remains, for she has a clear and articulate voice.
"It could be just us two."
"I know," I say, "and I'm terrified. I had planned to sit back and keep my mouth shut while everyone else asked you questions. I haven't prepared any questions of my own."
"And I haven't prepared any answers, either. Well we'll have a great chat, just the two of us."
But two more women appear, one an older lady who writes short stories occasionally, and the other a fairly loud woman who spends a lot of time talking about her mermaid novel. The author doesn't get to say a lot, but when she does, it is worth hearing. When we break for coffee, she leans over conspiratorially and says, "It would have been fun if it was just us."
We get chatting and I realise I am not disappointed the more I learn of this author. I admire her book and her experiences, but above all I realise that I greatly respect her perspective.
She asks about my own life and work and I share briefly of my family's gypsy travels and my homeschool years. Then I confess that my lack of real writing education sometimes saps my confidence.
"Don't let it," she says. She looks at me seriously. "I always say this: The craft of writing can be taught. But you cannot teach someone to be a writer. Some simply are and some are not, no matter how well they know their craft. To be a writer, you need something different. You need an unusual background, and you have it." She is speaking slowly and thoughtfully. "I can see that you have it. In your experience, you have everything you need."
From another, it might sound like idle praise. But coming from her, I believe it. It is a benediction.
Monday, December 3, 2007
dream
I woke this morning with my heart pounding after a very intense dream.
It had all the elements of a nightmare. I was me, but not really me. A smaller, more delicate, younger me. My parents were nowhere to be found--or even mentioned. I had the care of two tiny siblings to consider. And somehow, we were under threat from a sword-wielding, knife-throwing, vicious, evil kidnapper who held us and several others hostage.
But somehow it didn't end like bad dreams, me waking up and glad to end it. For right at the end, a hero who had been masquerading undercover as the bad guy's friend, came in and saved the day--saved my little brother and sister and then turned to me. I was sobbing and he caught me and held me. In spite of the pain I was in, I felt suddenly so safe.
That's when I woke up. My heart was still thumping a mile a minute after all the adventure, but I was inexpressibly happy. A good dream, in the end.
It had all the elements of a nightmare. I was me, but not really me. A smaller, more delicate, younger me. My parents were nowhere to be found--or even mentioned. I had the care of two tiny siblings to consider. And somehow, we were under threat from a sword-wielding, knife-throwing, vicious, evil kidnapper who held us and several others hostage.
But somehow it didn't end like bad dreams, me waking up and glad to end it. For right at the end, a hero who had been masquerading undercover as the bad guy's friend, came in and saved the day--saved my little brother and sister and then turned to me. I was sobbing and he caught me and held me. In spite of the pain I was in, I felt suddenly so safe.
That's when I woke up. My heart was still thumping a mile a minute after all the adventure, but I was inexpressibly happy. A good dream, in the end.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
journal of a novel
What is this delirious world of novel-writing? Does everyone feel the same way I do? That, quite assuredly, all the other people out there sitting before their computer monitors, fingers poised over keyboards, know what they're doing while I really don't? It's pure bizarreness, this idea that one can take a little line of thought, a little "what if?", and spin it out into 60 or 100 or 120 thousand words, and make something of it, something that others will read and be absorbed into.
It comes over me in great sweeping waves: This is trash. This is cheap Sweet Valley Twins stuff. You don't know how to write and why are you even trying anyway? I wonder if my characters--two dimensional, bland characters?--just live in circles and keep doing the same things. Do the settings change enough? And is my plot just a single straight line without any deviations, like the tragic flatline on a monitor when someone dies?
These are the thoughts that sometimes paralyse me. But I will not let them.
It comes over me in great sweeping waves: This is trash. This is cheap Sweet Valley Twins stuff. You don't know how to write and why are you even trying anyway? I wonder if my characters--two dimensional, bland characters?--just live in circles and keep doing the same things. Do the settings change enough? And is my plot just a single straight line without any deviations, like the tragic flatline on a monitor when someone dies?
These are the thoughts that sometimes paralyse me. But I will not let them.
Monday, September 17, 2007
wishing
Holidays always turn into intensely revelatory times for me. If I leave home for more than a day, I inevitably come back wanting to change a) the world or b) something radical in myself. At times it seems that changing the world is the easiest option.
After just a weekend away, I am despairing of ever being able to write real stuff. I keep wanting to create stories with Hardy Boys-style plots full of odd moments of excitement that yield no real anything. They are what come to mind. But what I really want to write is about real life, real emotions, real people. I want to write stuff that makes people go, "Oh yes." I want them to feel and know they are not alone.
But here I am, crafting silly little tales of adventure--nothing of which I really know anything about--and feeling like I can't write about life because I haven't lived enough of it.
After just a weekend away, I am despairing of ever being able to write real stuff. I keep wanting to create stories with Hardy Boys-style plots full of odd moments of excitement that yield no real anything. They are what come to mind. But what I really want to write is about real life, real emotions, real people. I want to write stuff that makes people go, "Oh yes." I want them to feel and know they are not alone.
But here I am, crafting silly little tales of adventure--nothing of which I really know anything about--and feeling like I can't write about life because I haven't lived enough of it.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
pages
I haven't written anything here for over two weeks. But I have done a little editing on my novella draft. (Hate the word as much as I do, I still must use it. I don't think I have 100,000-word books in me.) That's good, isn't it?
Six pages down. One hundred and eighty-eight to go.
Six pages down. One hundred and eighty-eight to go.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
thunderhead
I am certain I read Flicka when I was small, and I know I read The Green Grass of Wyoming about half a dozen times, but somehow I missed the middle book in the trilogy, Thunderhead. I am on an unconscious childhood book reminiscence trip, I think, because I keep borrowing books from the library that I loved sixteen or seventeen years ago. The Anastasia books by Lois Lowry. Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. Now Thunderhead, filling in the gaps in my reading of the famous horse series.
I am discovering what I did not notice when I was small: Mary O'Hara is really a very good writer. I've never been a horse person. Somehow I missed that eleven-year-old horse-mad thing. But the Flicka books grip me, even in spite of the long narrative passages looking deep into the minds of horses. Purely fantasy, of course, because no one can look completely into the minds of horses.
What I most love, though, are the passages dealing with the parents--Rob and Nell--and the beauties and torments of their relationship. I remember skipping these passages when I was reading The Green Grass of Wyoming at about age fourteen. Boring. But now I love them, seeing so much of genuine human nature echoed in the fiction that my heart goes out to meet the stories halfway, feeling what the characters feel and understanding, really understanding them. I want to be able to write like that.
I am discovering what I did not notice when I was small: Mary O'Hara is really a very good writer. I've never been a horse person. Somehow I missed that eleven-year-old horse-mad thing. But the Flicka books grip me, even in spite of the long narrative passages looking deep into the minds of horses. Purely fantasy, of course, because no one can look completely into the minds of horses.
What I most love, though, are the passages dealing with the parents--Rob and Nell--and the beauties and torments of their relationship. I remember skipping these passages when I was reading The Green Grass of Wyoming at about age fourteen. Boring. But now I love them, seeing so much of genuine human nature echoed in the fiction that my heart goes out to meet the stories halfway, feeling what the characters feel and understanding, really understanding them. I want to be able to write like that.
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