Lilith Saintcrow

So far this morning it’s been:

* 1K on an old fantasy story that never really got off the ground.
* Working out.
* Waiting for the next hit of JR Ward’s Black Dagger books to arrive. These are totally, utterly cracktastic. Though switching between them, Georgette Heyer, and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick gives me weird, weird dreams.
* Rainy and a little squally, and the grass is very lusciously green. The air smells good, and the new yellow-green leaves on the tree I can see from my writing chair are light and fluffy.

This afternoon is for showering and diving back into line edits and fixing things around. After I finish my coffee. I swear to God I am not leaving the house today, unless it’s for something extraordinary. Yesterday was one of the worst days I’ve had in a year or so, and I was so glad to crawl back into bed at the end of it, you have no idea. But today is much much better, and it’s so much easier to breathe as well.

So that’s all. I am very boring today. I should go write a car chase or a big sweaty, dirty, nasty broadsword melee to spice things up a bit. Just as soon as I finish my coffee.

See you later…

It’s just one of those days where I am reduced to helpless laughter halfway through. It’s either that or cry out of sheer frustration and angst. You know, those days where you wake up, things are okay for a while, you’re on a roll…and then it all goes to hell and one thing follows another and then, you have to start laughing at the sheer absurdity of each situation because otherwise you’re going to have a complete sobbing breakdown?

Yeah, like that. *headdesk*

Anyway. I have not heard from one of our winners (Catie at comment 61, no not you, Ms. Murphy, a different Catie *grin*) so I might have that copy of Strange Angels to give away if I don’t hear from that winner before midnight tonight.

Okay. I’m going to have another cup of coffee and a biscotti, and settle down to work. Now that I’m home and not going anywhere else, I’m hoping the day will brighten. Man, I’m glad I hit the treadmill this morning. Some days that’s the only thing that can keep one going.

And a happy Monday to you, dear Readers. I’ve had one of the busiest weekends I can remember, up to and including a video shoot yesterday. (I can’t officially announce for what yet. Stay tuned.) So I am yawning and shambling this morning.

And we have two Contest Winners! I added the comments on the post here and at Deadline Dames together, because there was some initial confusion about where to comment to win and this seemed the fairest way of resolving it. With the help of Random.org, we have our winners! As luck would have it they are both commenters on the Dames post.

So, our first winner is comment #61, from Catie, who said:

Haha! Yeah Dame Lilith you’ve pretty much echoed what everyone who cares about me always says: “Stop worrying about whether or not your work has value and what it might be–JUST WRITE and make it the best work you’re capable of producing.” Dagnabbit if y’all aren’t on to something.

Good advice, Catie! And our second winner is comment #87, from Leslie, who said:

Thank you for your straight forward advice on writing. I’ve requested The Elements of Style from the library.

Ah, those words are sweet sweet music to my ears.

So, Catie and Leslie, send me your snail mail addresses. Remember, I can only ship to the US and Canada (things are getting better).

I am now going to bid you a civil adieu for the day, I have a lot of catching up to do since this weekend was too hectic for me to really work at home. See you ’round.

First, the giveaway! I have two–count ‘em, two–signed copies of my about-to-be-released YA novel Strange Angels to give away today. Comment on this Deadline Dames entry by midnight Saturday, April 25, and with the help of Random.org, your comment might be chosen! Disclaimer: I can only mail to US & Canada addresses. Sorry about that.

Let’s talk about truth in writing. A fellow writer asked me the other day:

Here’s the thing. I’m a good writer. I know the craft stuff, I have the structure, characterization, dialogue, plot. . . what I lack is that spark of truth, theme, life. I write as honestly as I can, but I don’t know how to break through to the next level. How do you connect to yourself? I feel it should be the most basic element of writing, that one must learn the Other stuff, whereas I know the Other stuff and lack being straightforward. Ironic. How do you do it? Where does the connection come from? I feel I am making headway with my latest work because I asked “what am I trying to say here?” . . . I always avoided it because I don’t want to be preachy or gimmicky or too glib, but perhaps I should. I spent my lunch hour in the bookstore looking over writing reference books and my frustration kept growing because it occurred to me that I do know the things they’re trying to teach. It’s the Bones you talked about that I haven’t grasped yet. Help?

First of all, throw the goddamn writing reference books away. We may get metaphysical here in a bit, and that ballast won’t help. We all know how I feel about books on writing–there are two, count them, TWO I recommend^[1] out of the vast number of how-tos. Hitting yourself on the head with those books is probably the best use for them, if only because it will feel so good when you stop. Quit trying to look for a magic key in there. If there was one, the entire self-help/writing book industry would tank overnight.

Next, the bad news.

* You ain’t never gonna be happy, honey, ’cause happy ain’t in the deal. No serious professional writer I know is ever completely happy with the work. Well, they are on one level–there’s a great deal of satisfaction in consistently turning out good craft. But writers are inveterate fiddlers. We go back and edit. Relentlessly and constantly. If we’re any good, we’re constantly refining. Even when your books are in print you are going to open them up and reach for your red pen. That’s just how it is–you are always going to see things you could have done better. It’s like life.

* Like ogres, this craft is all about…layers. There is always going to be another level to get to. No writer is so godlike-perfect that they can’t learn a thing or two, or want to get better. Your characters have layers–you can stay on the top and wonder about their motivations, you can sink inside their skins and look out through their eyes. Either will give you different things to write about. But there will always be another layer, another thing to consider, another goddamn thing to learn. Sorry about that.

But there’s good news, and it outweighs the bad.

* You’re probably ready to move forward. One of the “joys” of a writer’s life (like all true miracles, it has teeth) is that creative motion forward is indirect. I’ve often noticed I get itchy and dissatisfied for a while before the craft takes a serious step forward and I’m back to juggling chainsaws again. I call it “plateau-ing” and I’ve seen it in other writers. You might be ready to take that step into the layer of the “bones”. The process–inspiration, gestation, frustration, illumination–repeats itself over and over with the process of being a writer, both in terms of small individual works of art and artistic growth. Don’t rule out the idea that you might be getting ready to take a step forward.

* And you can’t see the forest for the trees. Get used to the idea that you might be too close to your own work to see the “spark” in it. That’s why we have beta readers and editors. If you’re very lucky you might glimpse it once or twice for yourself, but I have to tell you I haven’t seen it yet. My editor tells me it’s there. My beta assures me it’s there. Some readers tell me it’s there. Sometimes I’m pretty sure a work is technically sound, or I love it because it’s mine.

But here’s a secret: I still cannot see this “spark” you talk about. All I see are the mistakes.

Nobody said this was going to be easy. But if you know you’re too close to see it, you may find some comfort in the thought and quit beating yourself up about it. Beating yourself up is wasting time you could be using for writing. Just…consider the notion, okay?

* You’re obviously not going to quit. Believe it or not, this is very important. You know the answer is there and you’re not going to stop until you find it. That stubbornness will stand you in good stead, and I admire it.

So, what the hell should I tell you to do?

All applicable disclaimers here. But you asked my advice, so here it is.

* Get used to being scared. Like it or not, the bone is where the fear is, and the fear is where the power is. You even mention the lack of being straightforward. What are you scared of writing? Is it something your mother would disapprove of? Something you’d be embarrassed to show your friends? Do it anyway. That fear of being shamed if “someone” reads your stuff is an invaluable sign that you’re on the right track. Heart in your mouth and your palms wet? Don’t stop. Keep going, keep writing.

You care what “someone” thinks enough to stop writing? I didn’t think so. Here’s a little secret: most people could care less. You’re no more than a secondary character in the big drama of their life; it’s the curse of being human. If your mom cares that you write hot sex scenes, if Aunt Lucille would be scandalised because she thinks the dingbat old lady in the book is her, if your ex-boyfriend might recognize himself in the dime-store Lothario who gets nailed in the nuts…who cares? The fig leaf of “these events are fictional” in the front of the book is fair warning, so don’t worry about that. Writing someone into a book is a much healthier way to deal with any residual aggression than many others I could name. And your mom will probably be so proud you’re published she won’t even care about the spicy bits.

But it all comes down to this: who are you writing for? Yes, you have a commitment to your readers. But if you are not writing the things that thrill you all the way down to your knickers, you’re falling down both on that commitment to the readers and the commitment to yourself and your art.

* What is the risk here? You might be afraid of your character risking something. Without risk there is no reward. If your character isn’t really running a risk, of course it feels like you’re just phoning it in. Sit down and figure out what your characters are risking. Then, up the ante. Make them pay for it. Get your heart in your mouth. Be unsure whether or not they’re going to make it. Get them dirty and make them deal with consequences. I know you don’t want to–you really don’t want to hurt your characters. But you have to. Otherwise you have a story with no risk, and no reward.

* Whose story is it? As Laura Kalpakian once said, the story belongs to the character that changes the most. Who is changing in your story? If it’s not the hero/ine, you have some thinking to do.

* Why, yes. It IS like taking your clothes off in public. But nobody is going to look. Some people are going to think that everything you write is about You. A character with trauma must be YOUR trauma. They will judge you based on your characters, and how well your characters conform to THEIR expectations. Of course everything you write is personal–writing is a personal art. But you are going to have to learn that feeling of exposure is not necessarily yours. It’s another trick by the Internal Censor trying to get you to back away from Telling The Truth.

Nobody is going to “find you” in your writing, beyond certain values of lit-crit and biography that I wouldn’t worry about, because by the time they become relevant one will most likely be safely dead. Writing is personal, but it does not hold the key to your inner sanctum. Only you do. The fear of exposing oneself is a necessary social function, and it sometimes holds one back from getting the characters dirty or writing about a situation you have intimate knowledge or imagination of. Don’t worry about this while you’re writing. It can always be edited out, either by you or your beta or your editor. Get it all out first, no matter how heart-in-mouth you feel.

* Do not quit. If you have come this far, you are so very close. You have done what a high percentage of people who call themselves “writers” have never done–consistently finished work and taken a look at what it means and what it takes to get published. You are at one of the last hurdles before the world opens up. Don’t stop. Stamp the pedal to the metal and let the engine roar. Go for the horizon, race to beat the Devil, go until your heart burns. Do not stop.

I promise you, if you do not quit, that spark will be there. Whether you can see it or not.

Now go get ‘em.

^[1] Stephen King’s On Writing and Strunk & White’s Elements of Style. That’s it.

Forgiveness might be a virtue. It might not.

On my last post, Reader FD commented:

I loathe the ‘to be a truly actualized person you have to forgive and forget’ message. Yeah, understanding helps and knowing ‘they’ had triggers and damages of their own, gives valuable distance and perspective, but that’s very distinct from the victim mentality of forgiving, and forgetting. I mean, come on, if you truly forgive, you are saying there are no completely unacceptable behaviours, and if you truly forget, you’d put yourself in the position of potential damage again. I prefer accept and assimilate. Accept it occurred and any damage caused, and assimilate it and use it as a learning curve and to become a stronger person.

I consider it one of the more damaging hangovers from Christian martyrdom – the pie in the sky by and by will make up for starving to death here and now, used as justification of earthly harms – because they will make you a ‘better person’. Feh.

I may just have to shamelessly steal “accept and assimilate”. I’ve been feeling guilty for a long time because some part of me says, “Forgive? WTF? Have you forgotten what ___ did? That was Not Okay, and don’t you dare say it was.”

I know someone will probably say that you’re not forgiving the other person, you’re making it impossible to move on yourself. And that you trap yourself by not forgiving, etc. I don’t quite think that’s true. Dealing with the damage a toxic person did is a fact. It’s there and you have to deal, and this martyrdom brand of forgiveness essentially victimizes one again after the initial fact. Why the hell, as Nancy Price wrote, would I shove beans up my nose TWICE?

A lot of my characters have trauma, and are thrown into traumatizing situations. I am fascinated by the deconstruction of people under severe stress, and I pretty much write these things in part to make peace with my own experiences of severe stress. As a coping mechanism, it works pretty well if I’m conscious of it. It beats binge eating, anger-management problems, and inappropriate behavior hands-down. Should I give this up for a “forgiveness” that essentially says I have no right to be angry, so I have to push that anger inside where it eats me?

Yeah, yeah, Christians are supposed to forgive. But I’m not Christian, and I see precious little healthy forgiveness of the type Christ was probably talking about among his purported followers today. The strain of xenophobia, fanaticism, and hatred drowns it out, and forgiveness becomes a word for tear-streaked sham artists to rope in the faithful for one more fleecing.

Screw that.

There are some things, some terrible things, that I will not forgive. I don’t say can’t forgive–I say will not. I refuse to excuse some things. Some things are inexcusable and they deserve to be treated as such. Where that line is drawn is a very personal thing, and I’m working on making my line solid (but flexible, always flexible) and not feeling guilty.

Because, you see, the guilt is part of the trap. You’re expected to forgive if you were raised with abuse, or if you had a boyfriend or husband quick with his fists. The repentance phase is part of the process of violating your boundaries. There’s a present and tears and promises never to do it again. And if you don’t forgive there’s more pleading and presents and “But I LOVE you!” despite the fact that it’s all control, and real love would never act that way.

Better to bide your time, escape when you can, get the help you need to make the escape stick (which is by no means a certain thing since the first thing abusers do is grab the purse strings, by hook or by crook), accept that it was terrible, assimilate…and find some peace within yourself, because you’re not going to find it outside.

Sometimes the people who like to play the abuse game think they own their victims, and try to hunt them down. You don’t “forgive” a rabid dog or a rattlesnake. You take steps to stay out of its way, to deal with it properly if you come across it, and to keep yourself safe. (Which is, incidentally, why I give every woman I know a copy of The Gift of Fear, as long as I can afford to buy them. If I can’t afford to buy them I give them my own and make them promise to read it.)

If I was a better person, maybe I’d see the point of the forgiveness a lot of people talk about. But as I get older, the more wanting to be someone else tires me out in a way I don’t have time for, and the more I’m just willing to deal and build a decent person out of what I have.

I’m thirty-three this year. Accept and assimilate. Deal and build. Simple things, and it’s taken me a while to get here. There’s work to be done and books to be written, I don’t have time for bullshit anymore–if I ever did. Sometimes I think that’s what “growing up” is–finding out it’s okay to winnow out the bullshit and just keep going.

Over and out.