a wake-up call, and some unplanned musing on reading for comment.

Woke this morning to what sounded like a remake of 'The Birds' -- an entire tree filled with (probably) grackles, many dozens if not hundreds of them squalking like someone forgot to oil them all summer. I thought at first they were mobbing something (grackles are bastards like that) but no, apparently they were all just gathering there to annoy the hell out of me, and once I was awake, they all moved on, en masse.

Just another little service Mother Nature provides, free of charge.

Thanks guys.

An so another day begins. But all is not crankiness and muttering. alfreda89 has done a rather thorough [and quite positive] review of the Retrievers series here, for those of you who need a cheat sheet on what's going on. I present it less as egoboo [although there's some of that, certainly] and more as an example of how to write about/review both an individual book and a series without actually giving plot specifics away.

Reviewing is a skill I totally lack -- I am very much an Editor when I talk about books, which is why I tend to do it only on request. Editors see things differently than reviewers do, and I'm not sure it's possible to switch between one and the other. I can move between Reader and Editor, because an Editor always wants to be a Delighted Reader -- it is our ultimate goal, to read through a book and think "oh. Yes. Excellent" and nothing more.

I had a discussion once with some fellow editors about their reaction to that elusive Perfect Book, and how we knew it. Many if not most of them said it was an emotional reaction, a sense of satisfaction or joy. Interestingly although perhaps not surprisingly, my reaction is a physical one. If I am reading a Perfect or near-Perfect book, I am invigorated. I literally can't sit still, I have to get up and pace, and do something, before I can go back to reading.

(for example, when I read the first Carol Berg manuscript, years and years ago, I had to get up out of my home office, and walk up and down the stairs a few times. By the time I made the second round, I knew I was going to be making an offer. This was, I believe, about 30 pages in. Carol of course will howl at this, since I made her do Much Revision. But Perfect doesn't mean Can't Be Better, especially in a first book....)

Hrm. This seems to have turned into an essay. Can I count this toward my wordage for the day? No? Damn. Off to work for me, then....

on grist for the mill, and being honest in the writing.

Everyone has heard the phrase "write what you know." To me, it's never meant "write only what you've experienced' but "experience more, so you can write more, properly." Or, as another saying goes, "everything's grist for the mill."

I had to write a scene today that should have been simple. It could have been easy -- a few broad strokes, some delicate slashes of color, a sprinkling of well-chosen dialogue, and the scene would have been well-set and perfectly enjoyable. But in the first draft process I realized that I had been there before -- not the exact situation: in fact, not the same situation at all. But I knew the emotions, knew the fear and love, the hopelessness and the hope all mixed into one horrible tightness in the gut.

I hate that memory. I hate the moment of it, the reality of it, the inevitability of it. I hate the pain it still causes me when I think of it.

But I needed it, for this scene to be more than simple, to be more than easy.

And so I used it.


EtA in response to something said in comments: There is a difference between using what you know to create something new, and only writing what you know firsthand, regurgitated.


Further musings, apropos my own experiences only.

Generic-You can write a decent story without digging below the surface. Generic-You can create fast and fun dialogue, and enjoyable plots, and characters who do the job admirably. But for things to be real, to bleed and breathe on the page, I haven't found any way to do that other than giving them some of my own blood, and breath, and flesh. My own experiences. And in doing so, I have to love them enough to share that gift. And in loving them, I have to love -- and forgive, and own up to -- myself. Which doesn't really explain it, but hopefully comes close.

Some days, this job is really, really hard.


Meanwhile, a few-three thousands words down the road, I've figured out how this particular book ends. The dragon at the end of the tunnel has started to sing*.




* no dragon. no tunnels. no singing. otherwise, perfectly apt.