Posted a lens on Squidoo about writing conferences last night. You can read it here.
Happy May Day.
My student, Ben Norwood, sent me a wonderful end-of-the-semester gift today–a copy of the The Republic of Letters, the journal begun by Saul Bellow. Ben translated one of the stories in it, a piece called, “Xavier the Leper,” by Alberto Rangel, from Spanish.
I’m just in awe of this.
The story is dense and gorgeous and Ben says that some of the plant and animal names are Amazonian with no English equivalent yet. This translation thing boggles my mind. First of all, you have to get the meaning of the story right. And then you have to worry about what it sounds like, the style, the voice, the tone.
Of course, now that I think about it, that’s what you have to do when writing fiction in general. But translating adds a whole other layer to it.
Its pretty cool. I’m so pleased Ben sent it to me.
"A writer should be like a playwright–putting people on stage, putting ideas on stage, making the reader become the audience."
David Halberstam, in the New York Times article about his death
I’ve been working on removing an excess of interiority from my novel. Scenes which otherwise might clip along are bogged down by my protagonist, the beloved Emma Jean, thinking too damn much.
Today, on the treadmill again (though why I bothered since I ate pizza for dinner, I’m not sure), as I was reading and pondering Emma Jean, it hit me.
What I need to do is to get Emma Jean out of her own head and into observing others. Clearly, she does this already–part of the fun of the novel is her irreverent opinions of people, and life, and events. But she also needs to get away from her damn navel gazing, especially when we’re in the middle of a scene.
Then, double whammy, another thought hit me (I guess this is why I go to the gym): In my late, lamented unfinished last novel, Language of Trees, I wrote in first person. And the reason I decided to write in third person this time, was that writing my Trees protagonist in first person made her too much of a whiny baby navel gazer.
And I’m still battling the same damn problem.
The good news is that at least I’m figuring it out.
The other day I dragged myself to the gym. (Yes, I do manage to accomplish that once in awhile.) The man on the treadmill next to me, who later introduced himself as Richard, was reading a Michael Connelly novel and I was reading Between, Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson.
We were discussing the vagaries of putting books on hold at our local library. The owner of the gym, George, stopped by and joined our conversation. George has 4000 books at his house (I thought I had a lot) and related a story about a recent shopping trip to Powell’s.
Anyway, George contends that people don’t read books any longer. Richard and I nodded our heads and commiserated with this statement, even though I’m not sure its true. Is it true? One does hear an awful lot about declining bookstore revenues and publishers consolidating.
But a week or so ago I was reading a book about blogging, and I’ve read so many lately I can’t remember which one. The author made an interesting point–that all of a sudden, writing is important again. He interviewed a blogger (I’ve got to go through my books and figure out where I got this) who talked about how when he was growing up it wasn’t hip to be a writer. But now, suddenly, it is.
The number of blogs in existence doubles every six months or so. Blogs are based on writing, duh. Websites proliferate–and lord knows, those of us who write SEO copy are VERY aware of how much writing they require.
So suddenly words are multiplying like crazy and yet there are no readers. What gives?
In some ways it pains me to say this, but what gives is that we’re reading differently Reading on the web on a coffee break instead of cracking open the novel or a magazine for a few minutes. Reading the news on our yahoo home page because we’re at the computer anyway.
What’s missing in all this is the good old fashioned book. We even read those on the internet these days–witness the boom in e-books.
I maintain that computers will never replace the book. There’s something so tactile and sensual about holding a book in your hands, feeling its heft, smelling the paper, seeing the words. Like George, I love books and buy way too many of them.
And yet I spend untold hours a day at my computer, digesting words. If I’m lucky, I spend half an hour reading a book.
As a rule a man’s a fool,
When its hot he wants it cool,
When its cool he wants it hot,
Always wanting what is not.
(By the way, my sister managed to snag this plaque for her own office. I’m not bitter about that or anything.)
Anyway, I finally got down to working on my novel this morning. I’m walking a delicate line, trying to trim and edit the excesses of my protaganist’s voice without ruining what makes it charming. Not at all sure I’ve figured out how to do this in a way that satisfies me yet.
But. Now that I’ve actually worked on my novel for the first time in ages, its all I want to do. I think this is the true reason why I resist writing–not because I don’t like it, but because I like it too much. I’m afraid I’ll be so pulled into it that I’ll ignore eveything else, like paying assignments, for instance.
At this moment, none of that matters. It only matters that I wrote. All is right with the world again.
Today, I know all about Rosie’s decision to leave The View. I know all about the storms that ravaged towns in Texas near the border to Mexico. All about them.
Why? Because I’m supposed to be writing. This is my morning to work on my novel. Its so much easier to look at stories on the internet which are. So. Urgent.
Another story I had to read was about how the governor of my state, Ted Kulongoski, is existing on food stamps for a month. I had to read that story because my friend Leigh’s partner Jon works for the Oregon Food Bank and he dreamed up the idea.
Had to read it. Couldn’t wait.
Now I’m going to go work on my novel, really I am. Oh, except I probably ought to check email. Just in case someone, anyone, someone please, wrote me….
I’ve just begun a companion blog to Word Strumpet. Its a place to park longer articles and will more informational and less topical.
You can find it here.
I just posted my article on story over there.
Suddenly, it is a single-spaced world.
This thought just occurred to me as I was editing an article I am going to post on my new companion blog. Last time I tried importing something from Word that was double-spaced I got everything all messed up, even after I’d figured out how to do it without making the Type Pad plain text formatting gods mad. So I was putting this article into single space.
And that’s when it hit me.
All SEO copywriting, of which I have been doing a LOT, is single spaced.
Blog posts are single spaced.
Isn’t it strange that after years of having the traditional format for writing be double-spaced, now in many applications that is no longer true?
I know double spacing is still the standard for print media and journalism. But much of the internet is a single-space world. What that says, to me, is that there’s just so damn much content in the world now, we don’t have room for double spacing any more.
I love quotes and I collect them, and I’m always running across new ones that I love so I’ve decided to start a quote of the week feature. Here’s the first one:
"It was like being a tiny, flawed god of a sort, creating worlds and inviting other people to explore them."
JD Frazer, on writing, in Money for Content and Your Clicks for Free