Lilith Saintcrow

Cross-posted to The Deadline Dames.

To round off last week’s post from the vaults, here is the post that immediately followed a year ago. I had planned to wax rhapsodically bitchy about how everyone puts genre fiction down, but others have done it better. So, here’s what I came up with a year ago, instead. Enjoy.

I woke up this morning with a serious case of the crankies. So if I seem a little bloody-minded, dears, that’s why.

I had a whole post about genre planned, but it would probably devolve into a huge slaughter of innocent verbage, full of recondite brimstone and unfounded combative assertions. Such is my mood. So I’ll content myself with two small things this Friday and go vent some of my spleen in fiction.

First, I’d like to make a small observation. An overwhelming number of what we consider “classics” today were seen as “genre” or “trash” fiction in their time. Novels were considered women’s reading (and hence, unSerious) for a very long time; plenty of novelists were supposed to feel ashamed of their success. Lots and lots of things we see as classic (because they have survived) started out as, for want of a better word, schlock.

This hinges on a theory I have that lit fic–the “highfalutin litrachur” genre is supposed to be the redheaded stepchild of–is actually a pretty recent invention. The Selkie and I were talking this over last night and she observed that lit fic is actually so diffuse it can’t be pigeonholed into a genre. There’s a fair amount of accuracy in that observation. I wonder if that diffuseness makes it easier for critics and reviewers to drown it in academese and impress each other, therefore making lit fic “serious” and genre “unserious”.

This is still a foggy idea of mine, so I want to invite other people into the conversation. I’m going to be thinking all week about what genre means, what lit fic means, and where I think the two differ. I don’t think it’s just in shelving or cover art.

Further bulletins as my thoughts coalesce. What do you think, dear Reader?

The second thing I’m going to mention is artistic compression. I use this term to describe the sense of pressurization I feel right before I dive into a big project–in this case, the fourth Kismet book. The outside world becomes an irritation and chores are something to be rushed through so I can get to the real work, which is the boiling of the book inside my head until it’s ready to slide out at varying speeds.

Ugh. That’s a nice mental image, isn’t it.

The sense of compression often returns, as Caitlin Kittredge so aptly describes, near the end of a book. (She calls it “Hibernation Mode”.)

A lot of the creative process seems to involve varying feelings of pressure. There’s the pre-boil of a book, the stages of writing (including the MY GOD THIS BOOK WILL NOT DIE slog halfway to three-quarters of the way through) and the sudden decompression after a book is finished, which involves a lot of spinning aimlessly. There’s a sense of pressure in revisions too, and sometimes after a particularly intense round of revisions I feel drained and bug-eyed as if I’ve just rewritten the goddamn novel.

It is really, really important to think about those feelings of pressure and to identify one’s own creative process, so it isn’t a huge deadly thing each time. A lot of writers seem surprised each and every time by the intensity of the feeling and the emotional drain. No doubt it is surprising, but not analyzing the feeling and reminding oneself that it’s normal can lead to a whole lot of inefficient flailing.

And while I enjoy a good inefficient flail as much as the next person, there’s always the timesuck factor involved. Figuring out your emotional reaction to your artistic process is one of those things that can make you a better writer–or at least, a more productive one. If you’re not blindsided by the compression, if you can take a deep breath and remind yourself that this happened the last few times you worked on a project, the physiological effects (mine include sweating hands, headaches, backaches, feelings of crankiness only rivaled by PMS, and a great deal of synesthetic irritation*), while not receding in intensity, can at least approach the realm of something you can deal with instead of a Huge Fricking Unworkable OMG Problem.

I tend to view the creative process as a technician. If I can figure out how this engine works for me I can get, if not standardised, then at least consistent results out of it, which is what I want. I know a True Artiste is supposed to wait in agony for the numinous descent of the fickle Muse, but I don’t have time for that. I’ve got books to write NOW, dammit.

So, fellow writers, how does your (if you feel it) artistic compression work? Any strategies, tips, tricks to get yourself through? I’m curious, and hoping I’m not utterly batzoid nuts.

Of course, the way I feel this morning, I just might be despite all my hope.

* I use this term loosely, of course. Most of the time my borderline-synesthesia is a happy fillip to daily life, a source of joy and creative connections. But there comes a time in the compression cycle when it just gets to be too much input and I get seriously frazzled, feeling like a delicate sensory instrument being mercilessly whacked by reams of static and messy data pouring in. GAH.

So, you remember a while back I was moaning and obsessing over being on camera? Well…that was because Penguin hired a videographer (the inimitable Dicky Dahl, who was very nice) and induced me to talk about Strange Angels.

I’m not so keen on being on-camera, mostly because I am a huge nervous butterball. Still, it’s fascinating to watch how all the footage we shot got condensed and–what’s that you say? Shut up and link to it, Lili?

Your wish is my command. If the embedded player doesn’t work, click here. Enjoy! (The bookstore is Cover to Cover Books in Vancouver, WA, and the vulture’s name is Clara.)

And Lord, if this video isn’t a further motivation for me to keep working out, nothing is…

It’s a projected eighty-degree day out there, so I closed up the house early and got out before noon to run errands. The UnSullen dragged the portable air conditioner out of the freshly-cleaned garage, and I just munched two sea-salt caramels that Someone Wonderful (the same wonderful someone who got me a copy of Dr. Tatiana’s Sex Advice For All Creation) left at the bookstore for my birthday.

Life is good.

I also got something wonderful in the mail recently–a copy of PN Elrod’s newest, The Devil You Know. IS THIS NOT AWESOME? I can’t wait to read it, since I’m a big Jack Fleming fan–Jack Becker in A Standup Dame is an indirect tribute to Fleming and Elrod, as well as Hammett and Chandler. Plus, Pat Elrod is one of the nicest people I know in publishing. Go take a peek, and if you haven’t already been introduced to Mr. Fleming and his nightclub, good Lord are you in for a treat!

I’m also reading a review manuscript of Kelly Gay‘s upcoming The Better Half Of Darkness, which is starting off a little slow but otherwise enjoyable and well-crafted.

The second Strange Angels book, Betrayals, is showing up on BN.com and Amazon. (It is not out until November 2009.) I was mildly surprised to see it classified at the latter under “Books > Teens > Social Issues > Pregnancy > Fiction,” since there is no pregnancy in the book. I mean, there’s two first kisses, but no sex and definitely no spawning. But then, we all know how Amazon likes to classify and declassify stuff according to their world-domination plans at the moment. So I am merely amused at the whole thing.

I’m at a weird stage with the short story for the Girl’s Guide To Guns & Monsters anthology. Every short, for me, has a point where I’ve finished the setup and have to get the crisis clear in my head before I can go any further. Shorts take so, so much more planning for me. The planning looks a lot like I’m just sitting and staring into space, but trust me–there’s wheels turning and smoke roiling inside the old noggin. I’m also looking at working in something I’ve been thinking about for a while. You know how on a hot day, there’s a certain type of smell from older concrete and a certain type of low juniper bush? An acidic, old-man-urine type of smell. I’m trying to get that into the story, because it sets the scene so beautifully. This is the hat-trick of writing, to reduce a sensory experience to black and white marks on a page.

Boil it down, distill it, breathe in the steam. Uncork the bottle, let the genie out.

So now it’s back to staring off into the distance and jelling it inside my head on a sleepy summer afternoon.

There are worse things.

I received a lovely letter from a Reader the other day. Here’s the kernel:

I just came across an article on your website where you discuss how you stumbled into writing young adult fiction. I recently finished my first manuscript. After the initial euphoria and happy ignorance……my feelings suddenly morphed into absolute hatred for my amateur creation. It’s been almost a month since i touched or even looked at the file. I had an epiphany last week that is marinating and is now letting me consider not burning the usb drive that holds my file.

Which led me to thinking, you know, I have two times when I utterly loathe whatever I’m working on. The first is three-quarters to five-sixths of the way through the manuscript, when it becomes the Book or Story That Will Not Freaking Die Already. The other is somewhere in the middle of copyedits, and the loathing grows into frantic disgust and outright hatred through the proof pages, and only subsides a few months later when I get to see the finished book and forget what a total goddamn deathmarch it was finishing it for publication.

I have decided, after hearing from other writers, that this is normal. There are varying stages where the hatred hits, it’s different for each writer. I don’t know if some writers escape this feeling. But I am of the opinion that a dose of hatred is perfectly normal when one is finishing any huge complex creative endeavor. One gets tired, and it helps one “let go” of the work in question.

Letting go is so very necessary. Writers are inveterate fiddlers anyway, we’ll edit and edit and edit. On that path lies danger, Will Robinson. Perhaps the hatred is a way to make us loosen our deathgrip on our pretty little work so it can go out into the world, so it can fly and be free. Maybe it’s just sheer exhaustion after so much mental and emotional energy expended on the work, which helps us know when it’s time to make one last push and tie off the umbilical cord. (I find this metaphor endlessly amusing because I HAVE given birth.)

The important thing is to not stop writing during the slump in the last quarter-to-third of the book, or to not throw the thing on a bonfire when you’re finished. Both times it’s discipline that saves one, and we all know what I think of discipline.

So don’t throw away that amateur work, my dear. By finishing even one work, no matter how “amateur,” you have already done what 99% of people who “want to get around to writing someday” never do. You’ve stuck with it and created something start to finish. This is completely awesome, and you should be happy over it. Put the finished work in a drawer until you can stand to start revisions…

…and get started on the next one. *tongue in cheek* Hey, you want to experience that utter hatred again, right?

Over and out.

Ah, my sweet sweet Muse, why do you torment me? What I need is adult UF. What you gave me yesterday was Heathers-esque YA. I’m not precisely complaining, it’s just…we need to work together here, right? Not in different directions. Look, I have some bonbons here. Pretty bonbons all wrapped up in shiny foil. You like bonbons, right? That’s a good girl.

Now, let’s work on these short stories, what do you say?

It won’t work. She’ll take the bribe and do what she wants anyway. Fickle, heartless wench.

In other news, a long Memorial Day weekend was full of cleaning. The garage is organized, our Free pile down at the end of the driveway disposed of mattresses and various other things. I am constantly amazed at the lure of “free.” There is no word more likely to get someone’s attention. I suspect there is some cultural or even evolutionary reason for it.

The house is cleaned out, stuff neatly bagged and boxed. The books are sorted. The UnSullen not only fetched, carried, organized, swept, and otherwise cleaned, but he also built a patio for us and took the kids to the track to fly paper airplanes. Our across-the-street neighbor put several items in with his garage sale, thank goodness. All in all, everyone worked hard this past weekend, and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief yesterday. The kind of relief one feels after running a marathon and reaching the end without collapsing.

Now if I can just get this damn story to coalesce. I like the Heathers-esque YA with Stepford vampires, but it’s not exactly what the anthology people want.

Yeah, yeah, I know. My life is so hard.

It’s time to bring out the big guns. When in doubt and when the Muse is refusing to percolate, there is only one solution.

Fairy tales.

I’m gonna get out my Grimm’s and my Briggs. See you around, kiddos.