This blog’s been quiet. I’m just writing. It’s fun (mostly) but doesn’t look like much. And my social media action, such as it is, has been on Twitter and Instagram.
Instagram has been more fun than Twitter because I deal in words so much, at work and at play, while with Instagram all you have to do is post a picture.
About 78 days ago now I decided to take part in a 100-day challenge I read about on a lovely blog called This Itch of Writing. Itch, in turn, was inspired by the UK novelist Jenn Ashworth who wrote:
Anyone can join in. Just turn up every day. One sentence counts. Opening the word document counts. Taking yourself for a walk or a nap to figure out a problem counts. Any type of writing counts. You don’t have to be published or be working toward publication.
No word count boot camp or productivity porn. If you don’t have the spoons to do this every day or you care for other people then you can change the rules so they suit you. If writing is part of your job (academic friends who are working to contract – this is for you) and you need to care for yourself and your colleagues by resisting work at weekends, then change the rules to make it work for you. If you miss a day or a week or change your mind it is okay.
Let’s be gentle and see what happens: I’m doing this because it reminds me to make writing more important than the stuff other people want me to make important. Let’s go! 2/100
That’s keeping the bar pretty low, I thought, I can do that! And so far I have — though some days have been more minimal than others. I think “it reminds me to make writing more important than the stuff other people want me to make important” is a beautiful phrase that cannot be said, or thought, enough.
What’s funny about #100daysofwriting, Instagram version, is that I mainly post pictures of my computer. Sometimes, to shake things up and reflect the reality of how I write, I post pictures of my notebook! Every now and then there’s one from an exotic setting like the Keighley & Worth Valley railway or the New York City subway.
So, wait, what about the sale? The Kindle version of THE JANE AUSTEN PROJECT is $1.99, down from its usual $9.99 for am I not sure how long. So if you’ve been thinking about chancing it, this is your moment.
Saturday at 7:30 p.m. I’ll be in the Barnes and Noble in Paramus at the kind invitation of the Science Fiction Association of Bergen County, talking about my book and probably other and equally interesting things, like science fiction and novel-writing. If you find yourself in Paramus, or in the vicinity, do stop in….
Here’s a thing I wrote for Women Writers, Women’s Books. With a picture of where I did most of my writing while in Minnesota. I left there a week ago and it already seems like a glorious, delirious dream.
To write stories is always to be alone in a room, with only our characters for company. But what about readers? To write presupposes their eventual existence. Yet for a writer just setting out, doubtful of success, the reader is as fictional as the rest of it.
We write for various reasons. To understand ourselves or other people; to make sense of life’s randomness and injustice; perhaps to draw attention to them, or to imagine how things could be better. There is a certain narcissism too, in imposing yourself on the world, insisting on your own cleverness. The archetype of the Mary Sue represents the extreme of that wish-fulfilling impulse I suspect lives inside every writer, however artfully hidden.
It strikes me, a week into this experiment, that the effect of a writing retreat is to compass the usual stages of writing a novel — despair, self-doubt, acceptance, discovery, etc — into a speeded-up version, like a time-lapse video of seedlings shooting up and unfurling leaves. There is almost none of ordinary life, with its consolations and its irritations, that commonly provides the buffer, the bread around the meat of your novel. It’s all meat here, to continue the analogy. This is both amazing and terrifying. It’s amazing to sink so deep, to consider nothing else. It’s terrifying because there is nowhere to escape from the notion that it might be utter nonsense. And what then?
Also, the writing I am producing here, just considered as writing, is terrible! I try not to worry about this, for it is of all things the easiest to fix. Interesting that a certain verbal facility was what started me down this path, the longing to express things in beautiful words — and now I am telling myself it is the part that doesn’t matter so much. Is it a case of not valuing what seems easier to come by? Not that writing well is easy either, but the structural aspects, the elements that affect the reader in a realm beyond words, drive the plot and make it hard to put a book down — these seem to me the thing you really want a retreat for, what seem to call most desperately for the focus and the lack of interruption I am so rejoicing in here.
But my time is already running out. How to enlarge on what I’ve accomplished here, how to keep it going? I need to hone the skill of resisting distraction. If I have only an hour a day but I can keep it clean, free of detritus, and focus on only one task, this will be a lot. And even if that hour doesn’t produce much in the way of obvious result, to still honor it and to see it as worth doing. Also to learn how to stay in the world of the story mentally the other 23 hours, this is crucial. There is more in that world to see than there was a week ago, more to think about.
Is it magical? Kind of, yes, in the sense that ordinary life is always magical if you can figure out to look at it properly.
A friend alerted me to the Austen/Bronte-themed podcast Bonnets At Dawn, which recently featured the creator of the marvelously strange web series Black Girl in a Big Dressand referenced a fascinating LitHub article from a few months back, ReadingJane Eyre While Black. Around that time I’d been reading “Villette” and was struck by how much she seemed to deploreCatholics, too. Which does not excuse her handling of poor Bertha Rochester, but does help us set it in a wider context.
By a strange coincidence, I learned of the Bonnets At Dawn podcast at the same time I was reading “The Professor,” the only Bronte novel I’ve not read before. Continue reading →
Shakespeare and Co is at 939 Lexington Ave. between 68th and 69th Street, not far from the shiny new 72nd Street Q stop and even closer to the 6 train.
Sarah Rose Kearns, the guiding genius behind this thing, is both talented and organized. She is also as obsessed with Jane Austen as I am. It’s been so interesting seeing her visualize parts of my novel as a play — I can’t wait to see how it goes.