the auntie mame files

Some crap about my life

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While Minnesota is getting socked with snow, we’re getting unusual rainstorms. The radio is not only talking about flood warnings for several counties, but landslides, too. Man, I wish we hadn’t moved into that clifftop mansion.

Yesterday was a good writing day, the first one in a while. I’ve been complaining about what a struggle this book is, but silently. Only to myself. I know there are a lot of writers out there with a lot of despair and frustration to vent, but I try not to do it very much myself. (It’s kinda dull) But what happened? I let myself complain to some friends, and while talking I realized what I was doing wrong. So, yesterday = good. And god forbid that public whining is part of my process.

After writing, the whole family went to see Rudolph, The Next Verse. It was comic improv theater about the difficulties Rudolph had on the night of his famous flight. And of course, those troubles (and other details) were decided by shouting 4-9 year olds. The whole thing was very funny, had a lot of firearms and radiation in it (courtesy of the kids) and a bit of singing, too. My son was one of the kids who got up and danced during the “Radioactive Candy” song. Thanks, Andrew!

After the show, we dropped in on Half-Price Books where I bought an ARE of Child of Fire. I’d given mine away for reviews and whatnot, and I’d always regretted not keeping copies for myself (Posterity!) They had a copy some reviewer had sold them (shelved in Mystery, for some reason) so I snapped it up for my collection. And yeah, I checked for my own signature/inscription, just to see which dear friend had boxed and sold it off for a couple quarters, but surprisingly it was a rare unsigned copy.

And now I’m off again to the local cafe to try to have another good day.

“I’m not an author. I’m a writer.”

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Heh. I finished up the latest section of A Key, An Egg… yesterday morning. It was a really difficult section, too, in which a home invasion completely destroys the protagonist’s house, and dangerously ups the stakes.

Now I get to start the whole book over from page one. After a healthy dose of outlining, of course. Fun!

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Ta-Nahisi Coates said that obesity is the third rail of the blogosphere, and damn if he isn’t right. He links to a rather tame and unimpressive post about the BMI which had to have comments closed because people went nuts.

Because… yeah. As a culture we’re raising awareness about sexual pleasure and, even if we aren’t 100% sane (or ever likely to be) we’re tossing the issues of privacy, preference, et al back and forth.

Not so with the pleasure that comes from eating. People are still weird about their food. Anyone who talks about vegetarianism knows that. People have strange compulsions regarding their food, and they hate to let other people examine them closely.

Coates also says, in the comments, that his legs hurt constantly when he was 295. Damn. I weigh about that and have the same problem…

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Last, I want to take note of this essay by Richard Kadrey about his new Sandman Slim novel.

Let me start by saying these books sound very good. They sound like they would fall right into my reading sweet spot: Fantasy elements in a book inspired by the best crime and detective fiction of the previous century. Wait a minute! Is this my book? ::checks Amazon.com sales ranking:: Nope! His numbers are too good.

My point is, that if I weren’t trying to write something utterly different from my usual stuff, I’d be all over this guy’s books like ugly on an ape. Then I read this:

It all comes down to this: I’m not an artist. I know artists. I have friends who are artists and I’m not one of them. Mickey Spillane said it best, “I’m not an author. I’m a writer. That’s all I am.” Occasionally I wonder if I even write novels. I write long shaggy dog stories. Messy, kind of odd and noisy. I love the graceful sloppiness of early punk and the garage rock you find on Lenny Kaye’s Nuggets record series. I feel like my books and stories are similar to the way Iggy Pop describes The Stooges music, “It’s dumb. But it’s smart dumb.” My books are basically Raw Power with commas.

Hmph! I’m guessing Iggy Pop isn’t a musician, then, because he doesn’t play music.

I’ve gotta spray this grafitti again: If you’re writing fiction, you are an artist. I don’t want to get into a debate about where to draw the line through art/not art. Fiction isn’t an edge case. Fiction is art.

Now, it may be bad art. It may be utterly conventional art. It may be an ass-kissing hand-jobbing desperate-to-please whore in a Mary Sue mask, but it’s still art.

Art isn’t a term of praise. It’s not a label we reserve for those things that “terrify” us but never “seduce” us. It’s not a superlative. If you make something that exists mainly for the purpose of evoking an emotional reponse from people–in other words, if you’ve written a story, you’ve made art.[1]

[1] What say you, Wikipedia? “Art is the process or product of deliberately arranging elements in a way to affect the senses or emotions. It encompasses a diverse range of human activities, creations, and modes of expression, including music, literature, film, sculpture, and paintings.”

That makes a lot of people uncomfortable. I know; I used to be one of them. Also, I used to get as obnoxious about it as: “Yes, I wonder about the nature of our existence, but I don’t get all Tolstoy about it.”

So I understand the urge to try to avoid being an artist. Who wants to be compared to Tolstoy? Who wants their readers to think the books we write are good for them? Does McDonald’s go around telling customers that their burgers are high in fiber?

Hell no. McDonald’s wants to sell their burgers; they only talk about the taste and talk about nutrition as a side issue. Eat this tasty burger! Read this exciting thriller! Don’t worry, I’m not like those high-minded guys your school teachers forced on you. I’m fun!

It doesn’t work, and it damages the art you make.

Call it low art if you want. Or pop art. Hell, call it “art-tertainment.” I don’t care. But don’t try to tell me it’s not art.

And buy that dude’s book, because it sounds awesome.

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Jeez, I’m really ranty these last two weeks, eh?

Let me make up for that with this: you can win a free copy of GAME OF CAGES (plus other awesome books) by entering this Suvudu contest.

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Anyway, I won’t be around to respond to comments for a while. I’m in training today and tomorrow. Pity me!

That was the weekend

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Apparently, I live in a world where I order checks from my bank but the checks never come. Yes, world, I know there are these things called electronic payments, but some stuff still wants a check.

Anyway, did you know that Monday morning is supposed to be the busiest web day of the week? We self-promoters are supposed to save “big” posts for now, when they’ll get the largest audience. Me, I’m writing about a box of checks that should’ve arrived already. See the famous author ply his craft.

In other vital news, for you weekend non-readers, I had a fun Saturday and Sunday, sort of. Sat was great, with a trip to the local Lego convention, BrickCon. Pictures here. I also received a ton of family-friendly rpg suggestions on my blog and LJ. Thank you to everyone who chimed in.

Sunday was quiet for various reasons. I set my laptop very high–on a stool on top of a table–so I could write standing up. The reduction in leg pain at the end of the day was startling; I’m going to try it again today.

If I were the sort of person who wanted to tie all this disparate stuff together (and I am) I’d link to Michelle Sagara’s posts about writerly self-promotion. Here’s part one. You can click through to the rest if you’re interested. I was and am.

She pulls together a lot of interesting ideas and presents them in a more coherent way than I would, and she also makes me realize that I’m okay with not being an internet celebrity a la Scalzi. Yeah, he sells a lot of books and has tremendous name recognition, but do you know how much time he must spend reading through his own comments, wielding the Mallet of Loving Correction?

I swear to god, I’d never have time for anything else.

I’m really lucky in that it’s extremely rare for me to get a nasty comment or annoying visitor–it hasn’t happened for months. Everyone who drops by here has been really kind to me, and I’m grateful for that. What I really need to do, mentally, is to separate my enjoyment of my own little space online with my desire for ten million people to read my books and Sam Worthington[1] to be cast in the movie version.

I’m off to make coffee and write now before the rest of the family wakes up. My wip has been coming together in my head in a rather sudden way, and I need to finish this scene and jump back to outlining. See you online.

[1]I’ve actually never seen any of the dude’s movies, but I assume he’d be great.

Writers do it while sitting

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But not this time. I’ve stacked a table on top of a table and I’m working on my wip while standing. The usual pain I’ve been used to has become much too intense lately. I’m hoping a change in position will make things easier on my legs.

Which puts me in the odd position of reducing knee, ankle, and muscle pain by getting up. What the hell. Variety is the spice, right?

State of the project

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I really need to go back to the outline on this thing and flesh out the next few chapters. But not yet. I still have to write out the current home invasion scene, then sit down and work out the protagonist’s plan of attack.

This isn’t a Twenty Palaces novel, though; I’ve mentioned that, haven’t I? After bouncing around between a couple of projects I’ve settled in to write A Key, An Egg, An Unfortunate Remark which is the working title, I guess.

However, I’m a little annoyed that I’ve been tagging this project “project number next.” So I’ve created a new tag, based on the way I described it to my agent.

Back to work.