I’ve isolated what I should have answered during all of those stupid corporate interviews so many years ago. My greatest weakness is decisiveness. I hate locking into a decision. I spent three hours yesterday debating three plot points in my novel. I realize it’s a good investment because when I tried to fly by the seat of my pants, I made a big fat mess.
For some people, the creative vision seems really clear — I want to do X and this is how I’ll do it. For others, like me, it is anywhere from slightly to significantly more complex. One of the first pieces of advice I received from another author was never take the easy way out. And while that is good advice, I think I misinterpreted it into never make things easy, which is not the same advice.
Regardless, after Sunday’s fantastic “First Pages” class with Cat Rambo and Louise Marley, I’m feeling invigorated and renewed to run and play with my fictional future Olympians once more.
Has Kindle Killed the Book Cover? – Betsy Morais – Entertainment – The Atlantic.
E-readers have forced a lot of uncomfortable change on the publishing industry. I remember when the concept was first announced, I declared that those things would never be allowed in my house. Until there was one in my house and it gave me the opportunity to read anywhere and everywhere. And I was reading more because I could buy a book anytime. And that now everyone could read more. Holy shit, I thought, everyone should have one of these.
Watching the art form change is indeed somewhat painful, whether you’re referring to the writing or a book’s adornments. (For the record, I felt the same about album covers, but still enjoy them electronically). If I could skip ahead ten years to see what sort of fantastic device the e-reader will be, I bet I’d report back that the writing and the trimmings are and will ever remain art. The interviewees are correct — we’ll all wade into this experience together which is likely to make what comes out the other side a truly novel product. (groan)
Well, my second Montana visit is almost at an end. Sunday, I’ll return to writing in a major way with a day long workshop with the talented Nicola Griffith. I wrote a flash piece yesterday, but my major accomplishment over the past two weeks is the sheer amount of reading that I’ve managed. I think I am on my fifth or sixth book for the trip, which is useful, always. But I also look forward to next week — goal setting and getting down to brass tacks. And dusting off/salvaging my orphan project for the workshop.
Today, I had the grand task of helping my cousin with some song lyrics. As english isn’t her native language, she needed some grammar assistance and I was more than thrilled to help. Translation… now that’s a theme for the ages.
In re: life at my grandparents’ house…
If this house were a ship on the ocean, we’d constantly be in danger of capsizing.
It starts in the evening with a yawn. Two, then three and in the wee hours a fourth convene down the narrow hallway and file into the berths. Instead of waves, the air is thick with the reverberations of men and dogs. Someone is sleepless shortly after the last lies down. The coffee grinder sounds from another corner of the house. One by one we gather, grunting until a cup sits in our hands. A piece of bread sat before us on a plate. Soon everyone is there, stumbling to more coffee, more bread, dogs blocking the passages between the legs of the stools.
In the day, we ebb and flow — to the shower, to the office, to the kitchen. Dogs go in, dogs go out. Storms flare and die. Ones and twos and threes. In the evening, we gather to watch the news. A vapid weatherman promises rain. We all agree that he doesn’t know what he is talking about. The yawning starts again.