Tag: reading

About Writing

Female Characters

Autumn

Female characters tend to kill novels for me.

I think there was a convention some years ago, during which it was decided that there was only one acceptable personality type for all women forever, and it was to be: “independent and feisty.”

So it doesn’t really matter what genre you pick up, the main female character will inevitably be “independent and feisty.” And just like all the others, she’ll insist that she isn’t anything like all of the others. Dunning-Kruger.

And in a giant sea of endless independence and feisty-ness, the attributes lose all meaning and deteriorate down to a simple, “Wow, she’s a bitch.”

There wouldn’t be anything wrong with “feisty” if one also regularly came across female protagonists that were shy, compassionate, bitter, fanciful, neurotic, etc. Maybe I’m just too avant garde or something, but I really don’t think that women should all be pigeon-holed into one or two word descriptions. Female characters are capable of being more than the “independent and feisty” stereotype. Aren’t we supposed to be breaking out of stereotypes? So why is this one so deeply entrenched in fiction? Where’s the individuality in writing the same characters that everyone else is writing?

But every time I skim through a new book with the thought, “Maybe I’ll enjoy reading this one,” the monotony of endless repetition in female personalities inevitably makes me pass. I want to read about characters who are different; I can go out into the real world if I want conformity and sameness.

About Writing

Pet Peeve

Autumn

A couple years ago I read Petals on the Wind by V. C. Andrews. I confess that her first book, Flowers in the Attic, is something of a morbid fascination for me, but the sequel was … excessive.

SPOILER: Every man the main character sleeps with conveniently dies at the perfect moment.

I suppose that there was something of a generation gap going on as well, because the incest didn’t bother me at all (it was the only relationship that was actually built on genuine emotional connection), but the pedophilia was extremely disturbing — especially because it was a contributing factor to one of the characters committing suicide — yet all the other characters were like, “Lol, whatev’s.”

ANYway, part of the way through the book the main character has a baby and is left as a single mother, because, you know, every man she sleeps with dies. In her determination to prove her independence, she gets a job and has her younger sister move in with her for daily babysitting.

Then her sister commits suicide and she finds another man to sleep with. All of those normally time consuming things like toddlers and work fade into the background so she can go catting around instead. Childcare and paying the bills? Pshaw! No where near as important as those sex scenes.

This is one of my biggest pet peeves in fiction: when activities that normally require massive amounts of time in the real world are completely ignored with no explanations.

Children in particular are often used as handy little props that disappear when they aren’t required, and as a mom, I find this irksome. In the real world, they are always there, calling for you, following you everywhere you go, watching you poop. Whenever you realize the room is unnaturally quiet, you panic and start yelling for them. THAT is the true nature of children.

As for jobs … it sure would be a fantasy if my husband could take time off whenever the whim struck him, but that would probably get him fired fairly quick. Work takes up enormous amounts of time and energy, and it’s necessary for things like food and shelter. You can’t just decide that you’re bored of it and not suffer any consequences.

Which is why it annoys me so much when fictional characters have it unrealistically easy for no reason — other than those juicy sex scenes I guess.

About Writing

Terrible Reader

Autumn

I confess that I’m a terrible reader. Every time I pick up a book, I think, “This time I’ll read every word,” then sooner or later, I get bored and start skipping through.

“Why is the author taking so long to call the wagon green?”

“Meh, sex.”

“Okay, this character is stupid.”

“We get it already, they had a good time at the picnic.”

When I read out loud to the children, I adopt that bored, “Let’s get through this massive paragraph as quick as possible” monotone voice, and I’m afraid it’s pretty obvious that I don’t enjoy it.

It always feels like there’s a huge number of words getting in the way of the story, and I can’t remember the last time I found a book engrossing. Sometimes I could swear that authors actually want readers to skim over half of the novel, and throw in lots of filler just to look more impressive at first glance.

“In my book, it takes 800 pages for fifteen characters to make a single grilled cheese sandwich. It’s rich with subplots about running out of bread, taking bathroom breaks, and even falling in love. I also included numerous philosophical discussions about the merits of cheddar versus colby jack, and the different methods of toasting the bread. I included lots of poetry. There’s even a surprise plot twist where it turns out that half the characters are actually grilled cheese sandwiches themselves! The novel ends after the characters burn down the house and die because they tried to make it in the toaster.”

Oh wow!

No way!

The funny thing is, when I read my own stories with the same method I use to read other novels, I do get the whole, “WOAH this story is progressing crazy fast!” feeling. My style really isn’t best experienced by charging through. I do always “test read” my stuff before putting it out there, and following the natural flow of my mind without trying to speed up or edit anything feels good to me, so that’s how I keep it.

I skip writing the stuff that I skip reading. Which is a lot. But hey, that also means that there isn’t anything for you to skip over either, because I’m probably WAY worse than you about that.

Lol.

About Me

Change in routine

Autumn

I had established the routine of replying to a writing prompt on Reddit every Monday morning, but frankly, I’m already feeling burnt out on Reddit.

The reason why it worked was because I had to get up earlier than usual on Monday, and had a decent hour of musing while waking up with coffee. However, that phase is probably over with for good, and I no longer have that space of time.

I’m just not an internet-oriented person. My idea of an afternoon well spent is finding cool mushrooms while out bike riding with the kids. I don’t do social media. I do real life. Call it a weakness.

I don’t actually have the patience to look through endless numbers of writing prompts. Not when I have a bunch of other things to do and an extra hour of sleep to work with.

Maybe some other routine will work itself out, but since being a Reddit celebrity doesn’t appeal to me all that much, I want to devote my free time to finishing my current novel-in-progress. You know, the one that I’ve been working on for over a year. Yeah, that one.

Truth be told, that novel is the reason why I started posting on Reddit in the first place. I WANT people to read it when its done, and I figured that I could use some more visibility to accomplish that goal. However, that just ain’t gonna happen if I never finish!

So, change in routine.

About Writing

Writing for readers

Autumn

At some point during the writing process, you have to start thinking about your readers.

I don’t mean you should sellout and introduce a teenage vampire who spends all day angsting about how much he hates himself, and all night getting spanked in the local underground BDSM scene, before being chosen to participate in a deadly game of wits and survival. Yuck. No.

When you chat with someone face-to-face, it’s considered polite to speak clearly and audibly, and to continually read the other person’s cues to make sure they aren’t growing bored by your rambling. When you’re done, you say goodbye instead of just walking away.

Writing should be approached with the same considerations. While it’s much harder to work without a present audience yawning and glancing at their cell phones, it’s good to empathize with imaginary readers and place yourself in their shoes, so to speak.

Continually ask yourself questions like:

“Is this sentence clear or do I need to reword it?”

“Is this part boring?”

“Are my transitions smooth or jarring?”

“Does this paragraph flow when I read it out loud, or is it choppy?”

“Is the end too abrupt?”

Etc, etc, etc.

Your readers are your best friends; they’re the ones who appreciate a part of you that even your parents don’t know about (at least for many of us writers, lol). Don’t take them for granted. Be a gracious host and make sure that they’re having a good time.

If you know someone you trust who fits your target audience, go ahead and use them as a beta reader. Watch them read. Pay attention to their facial expressions and body language. While they may say that something is good, a wrinkled brow and down turned mouth will tell you that there was something unsatisfying, but they might not be able to articulate it. Don’t take it personally, just think about how to make it better. I promise you that it’s a good feeling to come back with the improved version and watch someone gush over something they were previously “meh” about.

While it’s good practice to write the first draft for yourself, be in the habit of rewriting the last one for your readers. They have the power to set you down and dismiss you forever, so don’t lord your ego over them. Be nice and considerate, and show some appreciation.

Books

Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier

Autumn

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When I was in middle school, a friend excitedly told me about a book titled Rebecca, and recommended that I read it because the main character was a lot like me. I’m still not convinced of the similarity between me and the main character, but I definitely liked how dark and gothic the story was. Rebecca became one of my favorites.

A few years ago, my copy was stolen out of our car by a pot-head, who probably thought that the red satin cover meant it was a trashy sex book. Hopefully, she enjoyed it anyway.

I decided that it was time to get around to replacing my copy, and picked up something else by Daphne du Maurier in the process. Despite how much I liked Rebecca, I had never felt any interest in reading any of her other books before now.

I settled on Jamaica Inn.

The horror and suspense are very well written; subtle and unrushed, which gives the reader time to properly appreciate the dark situation the main character finds herself in. I think that the impact of the BIG REVELATION was a bit lost on my modern Millennial mind, given that we currently live with mass murder being a depressingly common thing and all, but it wasn’t hard to appreciate it in the context of the book.

However, the romance was the weakest point, and the overall story would have been improved if it had been left out all together. It came across as a strange mixture of Mary-Sue fantasizing and self-loathing, and didn’t feel natural in the slightest. Every mention of love could have been blacked out and the plot would have remained entirely unchanged.

There was a very bad attempt to hand wave away a glaring plot hole two-thirds of the way in, and the story never quite recovered afterward.

My favorite character was the vicar, and I wish that he had more “screen time” so to speak. This probably attests to how weird of a person I am, but his lines were the ones that made my heart quicken with excitement, and I would ravenously devour any book that was written all about him. Unfortunately, he only appears a few times, and serves as a handy prop to make the ending more DRAMATIC. Still, I liked him.

The ending was not what I would have written, and I personally found it unsatisfying. While I am mindful of the fact that this book was published in the 1930’s and society was different back then, I still think that the choices the author made were lackluster and cowardly. Why does fiction have to be so black and white all the time? Real life sure as heck isn’t.

Finishing the book left me feeling disappointed and morose.

My rating: 4/5

Stories

WP – Ancient Evil

Autumn

You are an ancient evil, a part of the world since it began. For eons you have walked your unholy halls devouring prey and sacrifice, and of course battling heroes. Now you have a new visitor, who does not seek to worship or to purge. They say that they’d just like to get to know you.

 

I lived a solitary existence in the Nothing, long before the impetuous young deity took it upon himself to move in and create his own little universe. I watched him, silent but curious, and found myself piqued when he filled one of his planets with tiny creatures that built grand monuments to themselves before running off to kill each other. It was strange.

The deity had assumed that they would worship him, but from the beginning his plan had gone awry – these creatures did not want to be controlled by anything. I watched as he punished them, demanded obedience, then punished them again, until he finally gave up and turned his back on them. Without his watchful eye on his little planet, I decided that it was time to step out of the Nothing.

While I had enjoyed watching the creatures, somewhere over the expanse of time I began to crave to walk among them, perhaps to even interact with them. However, I was not naive or idealistic. I did not imagine silly things like love and friendship; I had observed their interactions for far too long to fantasize them as a peaceful people. Truth be told, the excitement they promised was the reason why I wanted to share a world with them.

I took a form that was similar to their own, and I descended to their planet. The resulting chaos was glorious and beautiful. They violently rejected me, sending heroes and armies against me until they grew too exhausted to keep fighting. Then, after a couple centuries of rest and virgin sacrifices, they would try again. I grew to love them dearly, through their endearing games and insatiable lust for blood. These humans were a people after my own heart, though I did not expect to find my feelings reciprocated. I privately regarded them as my adopted children, and never once revealed that they had been abandoned by their true father.

Then, one day, she appeared.

After eons of our game, I hadn’t imagined that any one human in particular would come to mean more to me than any other. They were all the same, shedding their mortal bodies shortly after giving birth to others, without enough time to truly grasp the nature of their own existence. Yet, strangely, time stopped even for me the moment she crossed my threshold, and I knew that she wasn’t like the others.

I had built a castle as big as a mountain, then surrounded it with fire because it scared my little humans, and I was loathe to disappoint. She had lost her shoes during her journey, and the first thing I noticed was the red blisters on her bare feet, poking out from under the blackened hem of her skirt. It was strange to encounter someone in my abode who was so clearly not a warrior by any stretch of the imagination.

I bade her to sit, then carefully applied ointment and bandages to her burns as the both of us remained dead silent. When I finished, I asked her, “Why are you here?”

“I want to know you,” was all she replied.

Through the years that passed since that moment, she never returned to the humans that had given birth to her. Instead, she chose to remain by my side.

Reddit

Not voted the best story, but certainly voted the most controversial, lol.

Stories

Writing prompt – Rebirth

Autumn

You just died. You go toward the light, but when you reach it, you emerge into a delivery room as a brand new, screaming baby. You have no more control over this new body than any other baby, and no one looking at you has any idea that you possess the consciousness and memories of your old life

 

At 53, my life hadn’t been long enough. After all the stumbles and faux pas of youth, I had finally begun to figure things out, and I had finally begun to look forward to each morning. My children had grown and moved out, leaving me with enough time to think, and perhaps more importantly to sleep, and I had realized with startling clarity what was Important, and what wasn’t. My deepest regret was that most of my life had been spent missing out on the good things in favor of the superficial.

My death was abrupt, and perhaps a little glorious. While I was driving home from work, a sudden yet powerful gust of wind knocked a semi-truck off of an overpass and into the path of my car down below. My last image was of apples scattered around the freeway.

I was surprised that there really was a tunnel with a light at the end of it – having never experienced death before, I didn’t know what to expect. As I sped along, I thought about everything I had done, everything I had loved or regretted, and I felt sad that it was over when so many things were about to begin. I closed my eyes in preparation of entering the blinding light in front of me.

Suddenly air filled my lungs, and I let out a scream in shock. My body was heavy, my legs and arms were completely limp and unresponsive; I couldn’t even lift my head. Some giant held me, snuggling me against itself, so I slowly opened my eyes and stared in dumbfounded amazement up at my daughter’s face. She was huge.

Or rather, I was tiny.

She was laughing and crying, with sweat on her brow and bags under her eyes. It dawned on me that she had just given birth … to me.

Freaky.

“I don’t know why, but she reminds me so much of my mom,” my daughter said, beaming down at me. “I wish she could have been here … I miss her so much!” Her happiness quickly changed to sobbing, and inwardly I nodded understandingly at the mood swings that happen so fast during those first few moments after giving birth. I wished that I could have reached out to comfort her, but all I could manage was to stare, and that felt ineffectual as well. Everything beyond her face was so blurry, I couldn’t tell who she was talking to. Her husband, I hoped, because otherwise I’d have to have a word with him.

She began to stroke my face and hair, and it was so soothing that I felt myself drift off to sleep despite my best efforts to stay awake. The last words I heard before a slipped into a deep slumber were, “Let’s name her Rebecca, after my mother.”

I had been given a second chance, with the people that I had held most dear in my previous life, and this time I wasn’t going to waste it.

On Reddit

About Writing

Book Covers

Autumn

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My husband found The Regiment (published 1987) in a used bookstore back in 2010, and a few days later handed it over to me with the instruction that I *had* to read it. The Regiment is a scifi novel that is deeply philosophical, with a subtle element of spirituality woven in, and it influenced the way I think of every day life. It’s definitely one of my favorites.

It was never unpacked after our last move, and now currently resides in a box in the basement, so it’s been awhile since I’ve read it. One of these days I’ll get around to unpacking those boxes, but that day is not today.

The thing is, my husband and I got a very good laugh about the cover, and we still occasionally reference how bad it is. The picture is only vaguely related to the novel at best, and the tagline is so badly wrong that I suspect whoever wrote it hadn’t even read a summary. Excellent book, terrible cover.

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I purchased Wicked Lovely when it was a new release in 2008, back when I was young and trusting. I consider it to be a guilty pleasure, since while I adore the idea of faerie courts in the book, I think that it is put together in a way that is shallow and a touch crude.

Mind you, I’d still rate the book 3.5/5, and I even followed the author’s blog for awhile clear back then, so I mean it when I describe this as a guilty pleasure. I read the sequel, Ink Exchange, and every now and then ponder whether or not I should get more books by Melissa Marr, just to see how her writing has been coming along. Unfortunately, the premise of the novels never unfolded in a satisfying fashion, so I continue to hold back. There’s just too much of a modern twist in her writing.

Wanna guess why I bought this book back then?

The cover.

It was pretty.

The contents therein did not match expectations. If the cover had actually reflected the story, I wouldn’t have spent my hard-earned pennies on it, because I’m not a modern sort of person by any stretch of the imagination. Now that it’s 11 years later, I might cut the cover off, frame it, and hang it on the wall where I can look at it, but I’m not all that inclined toward reading the novel again. It’s probably a good thing that this book is also squirreled away in the basement.

I might, at some point in the future, write my own version of faerie courts to tell the story that I had wanted to read back then, though my cover won’t be anywhere near as pretty if I do. I’ll have to rely on the strength of words alone to generate appeal, and we all know how well that will work, le sigh.

At least I’ll have the satisfaction of a good story.

I don’t judge books by their covers anymore; beauty is only skin deep.

 

About Writing

Why I don’t read contemporary books

Autumn

I’ve said repeatedly that I don’t read anything that was published this decade, because I’m a cranky bitch who hates everything about modern living … and all that. Hur hur.

I’m not doing this to be an irrational hater, but rather to analytically illustrate what I think is wrong with contemporary literature. At random, I have selected a paragraph out of a book titled, Meet Me at the Cupcake Cafe, because another blogger linked to it recently (hello!), and I think it serves as a good example of why I have dismissed this decade’s literature all together.

Disclaimer: I have not read this book, cannot review the quality of the story itself, and haven’t the slightest idea of what the writing is like outside of the preview available on Amazon. I have absolutely no opinion on the book itself; my complaint is with contemporary writing practices.

From the sample:

They both turned to look out of the window of the assisted living facility in north London. Issy had installed Joe there when it became clear he was getting too absentminded to live on his own. Issy had hated moving him down south after he’d spent his life in the north, but she needed him close to visit. Joe had grumbled of course but he was going to grumble anyway, moving out of his home to anywhere that wouldn’t let him rise at 5:00 a.m. and start pounding bread dough. So he might as well be grumpy close by, where she could keep an eye on him. After all, it wasn’t as if anyone else was around to do it. And the three bakeries, with their proud, shiny brass handles and old signs proclaiming them to be “electric bakers,” were gone now; fallen prey to the supermarkets and chains that favored cheap white pulp over handcrafted but slightly more expensive loaves.

First, for some unfathomable reason, authors have all decided that they have a raging allergy to commas. Maybe they think it’s more conversational, that commas are outdated and useless, or they simply never learned how to organize a sentence during their schooling; whatever the case, reading feels more like delving into an overgrown forest where one is expected to hack their way through alone. It also makes it significantly harder to read out loud, since being expected to run on and on without any pauses in one long unbroken sentence gives a monotone effect that can be really quite hypnotic … Woah, sorry, got sucked into the wrong dimension there for a moment.

The worst, in my opinion, is something that I think of as “THE TWITTER EFFECT.” You never, ever, not in a million years, see sentences longer than 280 characters (most will stay under 140, which was Twitter’s original cut off point), even in novels. Yes, I know that Moby-Dick was ridiculous for having sentences that spanned more than one page, but that doesn’t mean the answer is to only write short, choppy, status updates in lieu of actual paragraphs. I blame social media.

The longest sentence in the quoted paragraph is 258 characters, including the improperly used semicolon. Four of them are shorter than 100 characters, which accounts for more than half of the sentences in the paragraph.

So, let’s rewrite it. After all, if I’m going to claim that I can do better, I might as well back it up!

They both turned to look out of the window of the assisted living facility in north London, where Issy had installed her grampa Joe after it had become clear that he was getting too absentminded to live on his own. Issy had hated moving him so far from his home, but she had wanted him close by for her to visit, and they had no other family members who were willing to help take care of him. Joe had grumbled, of course, but he was sure to be grouchy anywhere that wouldn’t let him rise at 5:00 a.m. to start pounding dough, so he might as well be grouchy where she could keep an eye on him. The three bakeries of his past, with their proud, shiny, brass handles, and old signs proclaiming them to be “electric bakers”, were gone now, fallen prey to the supermarkets and chains that favored cheap, white pulp over handcrafted, yet slightly more expensive, loaves.

The length is the same, but I combined the seven sentences into four to decrease the choppy effect of countless periods, and enhance the overall flow of the story itself. I used a lot more commas for clear organization, and with any luck, you should be able to read that sucker out loud without stumbling. Give it a shot, and tell me if I’m wrong.

Thusly we have learned: Use commas and think longer thoughts, ’cause I ain’t got nothin’ to read.

I need a rest after writing this post. Whew.