Lilith Saintcrow

The Friday post is late today, since I made the call to go to Burnside Powell’s with the kids and the Selkie. We had an Adventure–lost the car in the parking garage for a bit, but eventually found it before anyone starved to death. I found a Catullus in Latin with the English translation facing, and a lit-crit of Nabokov for $5. Color me happy.

So, first this Friday, the news. Betrayals is on the NYT Children’s Paperback List again at #8. That makes three weeks. I’m literally speechless with awe. Thank you, everyone. Thank you so much. That’s about all I can say–when I pick my jaw back up from the floor there may be more, but don’t bet on it. “Thank you” sums everything up. (That screaming you hear? That’s me, yelling from PURE JOY.)

Next, the links! From Cracked.com we have 5 Authors More Badass Than The Badass Character They Created. I don’t think I’d ever be on a list like that. My benighted, very exciting youth isn’t interesting to anyone but me, and besides some of the stories just wouldn’t fly in fiction. And motherhood, while exciting enough for the likes of me, doth not an urban-fantasy novel make. (Hmmm. Although, if I did a few things, I could turn it into a novel…)

And for the bad news: Dr. Peter Watts, a Canadian SF/F writer, was maced and beaten by US border police for the vast crime of asking questions. (ETA: John Scalzi and Making Light have posted about this too. Dr. Watts’s account is here.) There are some hijinks going on, story is still developing, and he’s facing some legal bills. Go take a look and see what you think.

And now, for the Friday writing post. Which will be short and simple, since I’ve spent the day in Portland and am pretty beat. (And aching to get to the Murakami I bought, too. What? I like trying new things.)

It’s taken me about twenty-two years to decide that I don’t know a damn thing. Not only that, I don’t know what I’m doing. I am pretty much winging this thing called life on a daily basis. I’m winging the writing thing too. Any piece of advice I give you might be helpful, or my advice might be completely wrong for you. I’ve learned some things, yeah. I’ve learned how to work the process with the fiddles and inconsistencies nature and the gods have handed me. It’s slapped together with spit and baling wire, of course, because finishing one novel is not at all like finishing another. It’s a different beast each time.

The most recent attack of “I don’t know a damn thing” came while writing the first YA, Strange Angels. I had no clue. I was feeling my way around in the dark. I wasn’t sure, when I turned the book in, if I’d broken some unwritten commandment of YA novel-writing and would have to give the advance back–no, of course not, they wouldn’t do a thing like that. It was completely ridiculous to worry about, but tell that to my Inner Worrier.

Now that I’m on the other side of it, I can say that it wasn’t really any different than writing any other of my books. I’ve done this thirty-odd times now, twenty or so of which have ended up on bookstore shelves. It’s a repeatable process, but never an identical one. I got through each one by putting my head down, commending my soul to whatever god seemed most interested at the time, and flinging myself out into empty air.

If there’s another way around it, I have not found it. I often talk about the discipline of writing every day, the discipline of making writing important. The other half of that coin, at least for me, is the willingness to admit I don’t know what the hell is going on, and to solve the problems as they arise. This may be a pantser‘s dilemma, but I don’t think it is. Even a plotter will realize that sometimes the book does not follow the outline or the preconceived notions. I should think that even a plotter has to at some point just smash the pedal to the floor and hope the horizon doesn’t hide a cliff.

The difference between me now and me ten years ago is that I’m willing to let it all work out in the end. I’ve got my contingency plans, I prepare for the future as much as I reasonably can, but I’ve become a lot more willing to shrug and admit I haven’t a clue. When I stop looking for the Magic Manual of Adulthood^[1] and just make my peace with the fact that I’m doing this thing by the seat of my pants, I get a lot more done and worry a lot less.

If someone looks like they know what’s going on, odds are they’re faking it just like everybody else. A funny thing happens when you fake it, though. After a while, you will become the mask you wear. My submission to the fact that I don’t know what the hell is going on, or what the hell I’m really doing, has given me an air of calm and efficiency that many people have mistaken for Knowing What The Hell I’m Doing.

I think that’s called irony.

Anyway. Here’s the crux of it, the thing I hope you’ll take away from this rambling mess. There is no Golden Ticket, no Big Secret. You don’t have to know what you’re doing. That’s not your job. That’s the Muse’s job. Your job is to show up at the keyboard/writing pad consistently, to make the commitment, to make writing a priority. The rest you’ll learn how to take care of as it happens.

Just like the rest of us.

Good luck.

^[1]You know, the one you think everyone gets when they hit 18 or 21 or some fool age, the one you look forward to getting and then feel panicked and vaguely cheated when you don’t? The one that you’re SURE someone forgot to give you? That one. That Magical Manual. If you have one, can I peek?

Related posts:

1. There is too much. Let me sum up.
2. Random Friday Three
3. Editors Are Not Enemies

Tags: Friday Writing, pennyworth advice, shooting from the hip

This entry was posted on Friday, December 11th, 2009 at 7:48 pm and is filed under Deep Thoughts, Real Life, Writing (About). You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.