I feel like one large gluttonous mass. When I want something I get it, eat it, or pay for it. Self-restraint has never been my forté.
Why does this worry me? Well, with all the treats I've eaten lately, I've gained weight. With all the things I've bought, I use up all my money. With all the things I don't feel like doing, I become lazy and selfish.
Long story twitterized: I need to get back in control. No more giving in.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Why write?
Honestly, it can be troublesome. Writers are a misunderstood lot. People expect that it’s easy. All you do it type words onto a screen. As long as you understand the basic rules of grammar, you should be set.
Ah, but it is not quite that simple. One may write without being a writer. Written communication is essential to the world in which we live, but how often do you read something that lacks the basic essence of writing: clarity, energy, vitality, and ease of understanding?
Writers understand the essence and passion behind the words. Words are only symbols for the deeper meaning embedded in them. A writer can take letters—numerous, seemingly random strings of them—and craft them into something that hits the core of who we are as human beings.
I don’t profess to be a writer, at least not yet. I’m working toward it. The most poignant example I’ve come across lately is a personal one. In writing my book Surviving Eden, I found a poem by Emily Dickinson that, in eight lines, captures the entire essence of what took me about 300 pages to express.
So why write? As they say, there are only eight or so plots in the world; everything else is just repetition of the same. Essentially, there is nothing inherently new that we can write. But does that really matter?
I write because my life would be empty without it. I wouldn’t be me. Neither would I understand who I am as a person. When I write, I discover essential qualities about myself and my life. I can put things in the proper context instead of wandering around guessing at what they may mean.
I write to share a part of me with others and to make a piece—even a minuscule one—of humanity better.
Those are just some of the reasons I write. What are yours?
Ah, but it is not quite that simple. One may write without being a writer. Written communication is essential to the world in which we live, but how often do you read something that lacks the basic essence of writing: clarity, energy, vitality, and ease of understanding?
Writers understand the essence and passion behind the words. Words are only symbols for the deeper meaning embedded in them. A writer can take letters—numerous, seemingly random strings of them—and craft them into something that hits the core of who we are as human beings.
I don’t profess to be a writer, at least not yet. I’m working toward it. The most poignant example I’ve come across lately is a personal one. In writing my book Surviving Eden, I found a poem by Emily Dickinson that, in eight lines, captures the entire essence of what took me about 300 pages to express.
Eden is that old-fashioned HouseShe is a writer; I am only her apprentice.
We dwell in every day,
Without suspecting our abode
Until we drive away.
How fair, on looking back, the Day
We sauntered from the door,
Unconscious our returning
Discover it no more.
So why write? As they say, there are only eight or so plots in the world; everything else is just repetition of the same. Essentially, there is nothing inherently new that we can write. But does that really matter?
I write because my life would be empty without it. I wouldn’t be me. Neither would I understand who I am as a person. When I write, I discover essential qualities about myself and my life. I can put things in the proper context instead of wandering around guessing at what they may mean.
I write to share a part of me with others and to make a piece—even a minuscule one—of humanity better.
Those are just some of the reasons I write. What are yours?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Is the world full of aspiring writers?
Everywhere I turn, someone is writing a book. Myself included, obviously, but I'm wondering just how many people in the world, or even just the US, think of themselves as budding authors?
I can't think of another profession (and yes, writing is a real profession) where people profess to have the talent/ability with nothing more than a desire. Art? To some extent. Acting? Well, there are plenty out there, but I don't know of many closet actors. Closet writers, now. There are millions of them. Anyone with a pen and paper can be a writer.
There's a rather random statistic that 80% of people in the US say they have a book within them that they want to put to paper some time during their life. There are about 300 million people living in America at the moment. So 80% of that is 240 million (feel free to correct my math if I'm wrong). I know that's not an entirely accurate number, but honestly, anything even close to that is mind-boggling.
If that many people truly want to write, would there be enough people to purchase all those books? And would most of them be worth buying or even reading?
Lately, every time I tell someone I've written a book and am searching for an agent, they tell me about the amazing story that they want to write. I'll tell you right now that the majority of those stories probably would not sell in the marketplace. Publishing is fickle, and while no one can really predict trends or what will succeed, there are some pretty big indicators that certain ideas wouldn't do well: lack of talent, lack of commitment, lack of a good plot.
So am I trying to dissuade anyone from writing? Certainly not. If you have a passion for it, then do what you must to accomplish your goals. I just think some caution is needed. If all signs are pointing out that you won't make it as a professional writer, maybe it's time to listen.
If this posts disturbs you on some primal level, ignore it. Keep writing. Who am I to stop you? I'm just tired and rambling.
I can't think of another profession (and yes, writing is a real profession) where people profess to have the talent/ability with nothing more than a desire. Art? To some extent. Acting? Well, there are plenty out there, but I don't know of many closet actors. Closet writers, now. There are millions of them. Anyone with a pen and paper can be a writer.
There's a rather random statistic that 80% of people in the US say they have a book within them that they want to put to paper some time during their life. There are about 300 million people living in America at the moment. So 80% of that is 240 million (feel free to correct my math if I'm wrong). I know that's not an entirely accurate number, but honestly, anything even close to that is mind-boggling.
If that many people truly want to write, would there be enough people to purchase all those books? And would most of them be worth buying or even reading?
Lately, every time I tell someone I've written a book and am searching for an agent, they tell me about the amazing story that they want to write. I'll tell you right now that the majority of those stories probably would not sell in the marketplace. Publishing is fickle, and while no one can really predict trends or what will succeed, there are some pretty big indicators that certain ideas wouldn't do well: lack of talent, lack of commitment, lack of a good plot.
So am I trying to dissuade anyone from writing? Certainly not. If you have a passion for it, then do what you must to accomplish your goals. I just think some caution is needed. If all signs are pointing out that you won't make it as a professional writer, maybe it's time to listen.
If this posts disturbs you on some primal level, ignore it. Keep writing. Who am I to stop you? I'm just tired and rambling.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Shard
She knelt beside the shattered pots, barely noticing the blood trickling down her neck. Broken—all of them—lying on the scuffed linoleum, right there with her decision to let him be. He’d done it. He’d gone and broken his word.
Patience thought of her mother. Beautiful. Only word to describe her. Perfect to anyone but her own child. Slap here. Curse there. Anger everywhere. But what a show she put on for the neighbors. Nobody could compete with Mama for acting abilities. Star performer she’d been all her life, even to the man she’d married and later murdered. Oh, she didn’t hold the gun to his head, but she was certainly present in his thoughts as he pulled the trigger. Like mother like daughter.
They’d named her Patience because it was the virtue neither possessed but both wanted for the other. So why not burden a child with unreal expectations before she even took a breath? They were like that, Mama and Papa. Wanting what they’d never have, what they were never willing to give.
Patience learned early the importance of plotting. A good ploy was not to be outdone. Take time to get it right because there was no second chance with vengeance. The scar shaped like the old iron on Patience’s thigh was testament enough to that.
So Patience would wait and plan.
——
All was clean when he returned next morning. Who knew what hovel he’d slept in and with who. Didn’t matter.
Skin was puffy round the X he’d carved in Patience’s left temple. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to brand her for life. His. His mark. Like them old cowboys used to sign, he’d said. X for a name. X for land. X for property. Patience was property, and she wasn’t to forget it.
Breakfast was cold by the time he’d washed up. Threw it to the dog and demanded another. Of course Patience complied, because she was the epitome of her name. That’s why he wanted her, after all. Patient, submissive. Perfect woman.
He never would realize how perfect she was for him.
——
My, he was dashing the day they met. Leaning against his truck, smoking one of them ever-present cigarettes. She hated the things, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t stand it for a pretty face. Him blond, tan, good-looking. Her short, dark, awkward. Mama said she’d never amount to much, but boy, when he looked at her that day, she felt like somethin’.
Why she believed all them lies, she’d never know. Women did stupid things in lust.
——
She’d always wanted a baby, a chance to do right by some small creature. That baby would be raised up proper, loving mother and all.
It wasn’t like Patience would get a chance with another man. At thirty-two, she’d been lucky to get a whistle from the town drunk. So when a luscious stranger walked into town—no past, no future—she took what she could. Patience weren’t no fool. She knew she was ugly, but that didn’t matter to him. He just wanted a warm body to keep him fed and clothed, someone to dominate. She could deal with the rest, so long as he gave her a baby.
Baby came eventually. Three months early after he punched her in the gut during a drunken fight. Couldn’t do nothin’, those doctors said. Dead before they reached the hospital. They let her hold that baby. Soft but cold all over. Tiny fingers and toes, each with its own nail. Beautiful. Turns out ugly mamas can have pretty babies.
Little thing didn’t even mind her crying all over him. Just laid there, still as could be. Perfect child. Poor thing couldn’t even take revenge. Patience would have to do it for him.
——
Patience made money only way she knew how—throwing pots. Not at people, as the fool man did, but with a wheel. Same way her mama taught her. Only good thing she got from mama. Couldn’t even get her looks, but she certainly got the talent with clay.
Sold them pots down off the highway in a little stand for them rich tourists. They always wanted a piece of the land. Let ’em have it, for all she cared. She had more important things to deal with.
——
Clean up this sty, he’d say. You’re a filthy pig. Who knows why I bother with you. Each punctuated with a slap.
He bothered because no one else would have him. Not for long, and certainly not for free. Soon no one would have to bother with him at all.
Days passed. The X became infected, but there was no money for the doctor since he’d destroyed all the pots she’d made to sell that week. No money for food, neither, but that wasn’t new. She’d lived through hunger. Besides, it kept her figure.
There was always enough for beer, though. Beer and cigarettes. Patience didn’t partake, but that only meant her money went to one man’s portion instead of two. A man could live on those things. At least he could.
Patience, now. She lived on hope. What hope did she have? None, really, but the hope of having hope. That had to be enough.
——
Potter’s clay stuck to her hands, coating the undersides of fingernails. She liked to scratch designs out with those nails, think of raking them through his eyes—and other unmentionables. Those rich people liked her style of pottery. Violent. Dark. Carnal. They liked anything that made them feel superior. Buy a scratched-up pot from a poor woman. Tell the story to friends. Changed a woman’s life with a measly twenty bucks.
Patience was worth more than that. But who would buy madness in the form of a pot for more than fifty dollars? Madness comes cheap, it does.
Madness. Genius. Same thing. The starving artist in his loft was genius, but the impoverished potter in her trailer was mad.
Now she was mad, but not how they thought. Patience, though, she could wait like no man. She would bide her time. Then they would all feel the force of her madness.
——
Mixing clay in her trough soothed her nerves. He was gone. Called his mama and told her he was leaving the crazy witch. Packed up his truck.
Never got far. Police came, said they’d found the rusted hunk of metal off the highway, broken down. No phone? No message? Dehydration, maybe, or rattlesnake. Coulda been anything. No body, though, so they’d search.
Days. Weeks. Months. None heard from that man. That was all he’d ever be to her. Him. Didn’t deserve a name. Not for all he’d done.
Patience was a free woman now, but she didn’t want freedom if it meant sympathy from the neighbors. He was cruel. They knew it as well as her, but they were all cruel here. Drunk men. Submissive women. That’s the way things were done.
Not for Patience.
Cards came. They went in the trash. Flowers showed up on the porch. They wilted. Patience had no need for pity when she felt none herself. She could survive on her own without a man. She’d done it before, would do it again.
——
The pots were exquisite. Never had such a fancy word described anything about her, but them folks with money said it ’bout them new pots she’d made. Since he’d disappeared, her work had far outshined everything else along that stretch of old dusty road.
Red, they were. How could she get such a beautiful color on a pot? The marks, so violent. Looked gruesome, almost. But they bought them. Gave them as gifts. Told their friends about the genius potter off the highway. She made her money. Blood money, it was too.
Dead men’s lips tell no tales, but her pots did. Red stories and brown ones. And, mixed with the right clay, very dark and black ones. But that’s what people wanted, so it’s what Patience gave ’em.
Nothing, however, was sweeter than seeing those bits of him leaving the stand each day as they traveled to the homes of the wealthy, tainting their perfect worlds with violence.
Patience thought of her mother. Beautiful. Only word to describe her. Perfect to anyone but her own child. Slap here. Curse there. Anger everywhere. But what a show she put on for the neighbors. Nobody could compete with Mama for acting abilities. Star performer she’d been all her life, even to the man she’d married and later murdered. Oh, she didn’t hold the gun to his head, but she was certainly present in his thoughts as he pulled the trigger. Like mother like daughter.
They’d named her Patience because it was the virtue neither possessed but both wanted for the other. So why not burden a child with unreal expectations before she even took a breath? They were like that, Mama and Papa. Wanting what they’d never have, what they were never willing to give.
Patience learned early the importance of plotting. A good ploy was not to be outdone. Take time to get it right because there was no second chance with vengeance. The scar shaped like the old iron on Patience’s thigh was testament enough to that.
So Patience would wait and plan.
——
All was clean when he returned next morning. Who knew what hovel he’d slept in and with who. Didn’t matter.
Skin was puffy round the X he’d carved in Patience’s left temple. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to brand her for life. His. His mark. Like them old cowboys used to sign, he’d said. X for a name. X for land. X for property. Patience was property, and she wasn’t to forget it.
Breakfast was cold by the time he’d washed up. Threw it to the dog and demanded another. Of course Patience complied, because she was the epitome of her name. That’s why he wanted her, after all. Patient, submissive. Perfect woman.
He never would realize how perfect she was for him.
——
My, he was dashing the day they met. Leaning against his truck, smoking one of them ever-present cigarettes. She hated the things, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t stand it for a pretty face. Him blond, tan, good-looking. Her short, dark, awkward. Mama said she’d never amount to much, but boy, when he looked at her that day, she felt like somethin’.
Why she believed all them lies, she’d never know. Women did stupid things in lust.
——
She’d always wanted a baby, a chance to do right by some small creature. That baby would be raised up proper, loving mother and all.
It wasn’t like Patience would get a chance with another man. At thirty-two, she’d been lucky to get a whistle from the town drunk. So when a luscious stranger walked into town—no past, no future—she took what she could. Patience weren’t no fool. She knew she was ugly, but that didn’t matter to him. He just wanted a warm body to keep him fed and clothed, someone to dominate. She could deal with the rest, so long as he gave her a baby.
Baby came eventually. Three months early after he punched her in the gut during a drunken fight. Couldn’t do nothin’, those doctors said. Dead before they reached the hospital. They let her hold that baby. Soft but cold all over. Tiny fingers and toes, each with its own nail. Beautiful. Turns out ugly mamas can have pretty babies.
Little thing didn’t even mind her crying all over him. Just laid there, still as could be. Perfect child. Poor thing couldn’t even take revenge. Patience would have to do it for him.
——
Patience made money only way she knew how—throwing pots. Not at people, as the fool man did, but with a wheel. Same way her mama taught her. Only good thing she got from mama. Couldn’t even get her looks, but she certainly got the talent with clay.
Sold them pots down off the highway in a little stand for them rich tourists. They always wanted a piece of the land. Let ’em have it, for all she cared. She had more important things to deal with.
——
Clean up this sty, he’d say. You’re a filthy pig. Who knows why I bother with you. Each punctuated with a slap.
He bothered because no one else would have him. Not for long, and certainly not for free. Soon no one would have to bother with him at all.
Days passed. The X became infected, but there was no money for the doctor since he’d destroyed all the pots she’d made to sell that week. No money for food, neither, but that wasn’t new. She’d lived through hunger. Besides, it kept her figure.
There was always enough for beer, though. Beer and cigarettes. Patience didn’t partake, but that only meant her money went to one man’s portion instead of two. A man could live on those things. At least he could.
Patience, now. She lived on hope. What hope did she have? None, really, but the hope of having hope. That had to be enough.
——
Potter’s clay stuck to her hands, coating the undersides of fingernails. She liked to scratch designs out with those nails, think of raking them through his eyes—and other unmentionables. Those rich people liked her style of pottery. Violent. Dark. Carnal. They liked anything that made them feel superior. Buy a scratched-up pot from a poor woman. Tell the story to friends. Changed a woman’s life with a measly twenty bucks.
Patience was worth more than that. But who would buy madness in the form of a pot for more than fifty dollars? Madness comes cheap, it does.
Madness. Genius. Same thing. The starving artist in his loft was genius, but the impoverished potter in her trailer was mad.
Now she was mad, but not how they thought. Patience, though, she could wait like no man. She would bide her time. Then they would all feel the force of her madness.
——
Mixing clay in her trough soothed her nerves. He was gone. Called his mama and told her he was leaving the crazy witch. Packed up his truck.
Never got far. Police came, said they’d found the rusted hunk of metal off the highway, broken down. No phone? No message? Dehydration, maybe, or rattlesnake. Coulda been anything. No body, though, so they’d search.
Days. Weeks. Months. None heard from that man. That was all he’d ever be to her. Him. Didn’t deserve a name. Not for all he’d done.
Patience was a free woman now, but she didn’t want freedom if it meant sympathy from the neighbors. He was cruel. They knew it as well as her, but they were all cruel here. Drunk men. Submissive women. That’s the way things were done.
Not for Patience.
Cards came. They went in the trash. Flowers showed up on the porch. They wilted. Patience had no need for pity when she felt none herself. She could survive on her own without a man. She’d done it before, would do it again.
——
The pots were exquisite. Never had such a fancy word described anything about her, but them folks with money said it ’bout them new pots she’d made. Since he’d disappeared, her work had far outshined everything else along that stretch of old dusty road.
Red, they were. How could she get such a beautiful color on a pot? The marks, so violent. Looked gruesome, almost. But they bought them. Gave them as gifts. Told their friends about the genius potter off the highway. She made her money. Blood money, it was too.
Dead men’s lips tell no tales, but her pots did. Red stories and brown ones. And, mixed with the right clay, very dark and black ones. But that’s what people wanted, so it’s what Patience gave ’em.
Nothing, however, was sweeter than seeing those bits of him leaving the stand each day as they traveled to the homes of the wealthy, tainting their perfect worlds with violence.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Foolhardy? Probably
Sometimes I’m foolhardy. Especially when I’m being impulsive.
Exhibit A: Last night.
I had thought about buying a laptop for a while, but sadly, the lack of funds kept me from pursuing it further. But then I got impulsive and decided that if I really want to take my writing to the next level, I needed a laptop to take with me to the coffee shop where I write and edit. Of course.
So I looked online. New was out of range, but used. Now there was an idea. Long story cut shorter, I found someone online who lived in my area and who was selling an iBook. Now, as we all know, I am an Apple junkie. Once you go Mac, you never go back. So it was perfect. Plus, I was able to talk the guy down from $325 to $275. Go me and my fancy bargaining skills. Not really, but we can pretend.
Seeing how I was already acting impulsively, I kept on, driving to Salt Lake at night to purchase up a laptop from a stranger. If I had really thought about where the address was, I might have reconsidered, but I wasn’t paying much attention.
I ended up downtown and a little nervous by that point. In all honesty, the area wasn’t bad, but it could have been. I made sure before I got out of my car once I found the place that it wasn’t too seedy an area. If it had been worse, I would have kept driving and not looked back.
As it was, only the guy’s girlfriend was a home. Yes, I was stupid enough to go by myself and no, I didn’t think of the possible implications until after I was there.
I tried out the computer first, of course. It looked to be in order. A little old, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I was getting it for less than $300, so I couldn’t complain.
Then I pulled out my checkbook. Yeah, no. They didn’t take checks. Cash only. Why was I surprised by that? Who knows. But I ended up driving to the bank in downtown and withdrawing that much in cash from the ATM. By that point, I was looking over my shoulder to make sure there weren’t any shady characters around. I’ve never been robbed, and I didn’t want to make last night a first.
In the end, I got the computer, they got the money, and I’m probably a little wiser to how things work when you’re buying something from the classifieds. And yes, I did type this up using the new computer. Call me foolhardy. I do.
Exhibit A: Last night.
I had thought about buying a laptop for a while, but sadly, the lack of funds kept me from pursuing it further. But then I got impulsive and decided that if I really want to take my writing to the next level, I needed a laptop to take with me to the coffee shop where I write and edit. Of course.
So I looked online. New was out of range, but used. Now there was an idea. Long story cut shorter, I found someone online who lived in my area and who was selling an iBook. Now, as we all know, I am an Apple junkie. Once you go Mac, you never go back. So it was perfect. Plus, I was able to talk the guy down from $325 to $275. Go me and my fancy bargaining skills. Not really, but we can pretend.
Seeing how I was already acting impulsively, I kept on, driving to Salt Lake at night to purchase up a laptop from a stranger. If I had really thought about where the address was, I might have reconsidered, but I wasn’t paying much attention.
I ended up downtown and a little nervous by that point. In all honesty, the area wasn’t bad, but it could have been. I made sure before I got out of my car once I found the place that it wasn’t too seedy an area. If it had been worse, I would have kept driving and not looked back.
As it was, only the guy’s girlfriend was a home. Yes, I was stupid enough to go by myself and no, I didn’t think of the possible implications until after I was there.
I tried out the computer first, of course. It looked to be in order. A little old, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I was getting it for less than $300, so I couldn’t complain.
Then I pulled out my checkbook. Yeah, no. They didn’t take checks. Cash only. Why was I surprised by that? Who knows. But I ended up driving to the bank in downtown and withdrawing that much in cash from the ATM. By that point, I was looking over my shoulder to make sure there weren’t any shady characters around. I’ve never been robbed, and I didn’t want to make last night a first.
In the end, I got the computer, they got the money, and I’m probably a little wiser to how things work when you’re buying something from the classifieds. And yes, I did type this up using the new computer. Call me foolhardy. I do.
My dear Miss Austen
My dearest Jane,
I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, yet I am intimately familiar with your work and your life. You are a woman of limitless passion and hope.
As I read your stories, and especially as I see the productions of your work on screen, I wonder where I would fit in. Time and again I see the romantic lives of the women you created and wish I were one of them.
Could you tell me, darling Jane, if I could be Elizabeth? I admire her very much and want to be like her in every particular. She is carefree and lovely, sure of herself and her place in the world. Elizabeth succeeds in wedding a man of uncommon character because she stayed true to her own. But I am not like her, at least not in the essential aspects. I care too much of what others think of me and hope beyond all reasonable belief that a man will come to sweep me off to his rather large estate. No, I am no Elizabeth.
Catherine, then? I am mired in a world of my own creating, living in fantasy and faerie when I should be firmly based in reality. Her fairytale became her life, though, when Henry Tilney stepped into it. My life is still all dreams, so I must not be her.
Sadly, I may be more like Fanny than any of the others. Destined to wait for the man I love to realize that I've been there all along. No. I thought I was Fanny once, but my Edmund married his Mary Crawford, much to my devastation. I tried to have Fanny's patience, but even that didn't suffice in the end.
I very well could be Eleanor. Solid and immovable, a support to my family, but ultimately unlucky in love. Except Eleanor finally realized her dearest dreams. She put others first, and time moved ever so slowly, but happiness did come for her in the end.
I am decidedly no Emma. I have not her passion for matchmaking, though I am sure I would have as much skill at it as she. She is young, innocent, and endlessly loving, but still I am not like her.
Who am I then, Jane? I read your novels and love the women who inhabit them. I wish I could be one of them, with my own happy ending waiting for the last chapter of the book. I want my Edward, my Mr. Knightly, Mr. Darcy, or Captain Wentworth. I want the man who realizes that I am of inestimable value and can't live another day without making me his own. Will it ever happen? Will it, Jane?
After all the stories you told—of romance, of intrigue, of love—your story ended in solitude. You died a spinster, much like I am now. Am I to be you then, Jane?
I know not how my story will end. Do you know how it will all end for me?
Even though I have not much hope now, I can remember that Eleanor waited without hope for her Edward and sweet Anne waited eight years for her Captain Wentworth. Fanny spent nearly a lifetime pining for her Edmund. Maybe I can wait a while longer to find my own love.
With warmest regards,
Michelle
I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, yet I am intimately familiar with your work and your life. You are a woman of limitless passion and hope.
As I read your stories, and especially as I see the productions of your work on screen, I wonder where I would fit in. Time and again I see the romantic lives of the women you created and wish I were one of them.
Could you tell me, darling Jane, if I could be Elizabeth? I admire her very much and want to be like her in every particular. She is carefree and lovely, sure of herself and her place in the world. Elizabeth succeeds in wedding a man of uncommon character because she stayed true to her own. But I am not like her, at least not in the essential aspects. I care too much of what others think of me and hope beyond all reasonable belief that a man will come to sweep me off to his rather large estate. No, I am no Elizabeth.
Catherine, then? I am mired in a world of my own creating, living in fantasy and faerie when I should be firmly based in reality. Her fairytale became her life, though, when Henry Tilney stepped into it. My life is still all dreams, so I must not be her.
Sadly, I may be more like Fanny than any of the others. Destined to wait for the man I love to realize that I've been there all along. No. I thought I was Fanny once, but my Edmund married his Mary Crawford, much to my devastation. I tried to have Fanny's patience, but even that didn't suffice in the end.
I very well could be Eleanor. Solid and immovable, a support to my family, but ultimately unlucky in love. Except Eleanor finally realized her dearest dreams. She put others first, and time moved ever so slowly, but happiness did come for her in the end.
I am decidedly no Emma. I have not her passion for matchmaking, though I am sure I would have as much skill at it as she. She is young, innocent, and endlessly loving, but still I am not like her.
Who am I then, Jane? I read your novels and love the women who inhabit them. I wish I could be one of them, with my own happy ending waiting for the last chapter of the book. I want my Edward, my Mr. Knightly, Mr. Darcy, or Captain Wentworth. I want the man who realizes that I am of inestimable value and can't live another day without making me his own. Will it ever happen? Will it, Jane?
After all the stories you told—of romance, of intrigue, of love—your story ended in solitude. You died a spinster, much like I am now. Am I to be you then, Jane?
I know not how my story will end. Do you know how it will all end for me?
Even though I have not much hope now, I can remember that Eleanor waited without hope for her Edward and sweet Anne waited eight years for her Captain Wentworth. Fanny spent nearly a lifetime pining for her Edmund. Maybe I can wait a while longer to find my own love.
With warmest regards,
Michelle
Friday, February 6, 2009
Writing group
Well, I've finally found some real, live people with whom I can meet to discuss/critique my writing. Our first meeting is tonight, so I'm really excited to see what will come of it. There will be three of us there, but maybe we can find a few others to join us soon.
Besides, it'll be a kick in the butt to write more and improve my writing. So, if any of you who live nearby want to join a critique group for young adult writers, just let me know. We'd be glad to have you.
Besides, it'll be a kick in the butt to write more and improve my writing. So, if any of you who live nearby want to join a critique group for young adult writers, just let me know. We'd be glad to have you.
What makes a book great?
You have to have all the key elements for a book to succeed: plot, character, dialogue, action. But what makes an ordinary book into an extraordinary one is a writer who understands life so well that their words mirror it in a way that reveals truth and light.
My favorite books are often simple, but the writing is so clear and evocative, even in simplicity, that it strikes some part of who I am. The Alchemist, The Little Prince, The Graveyard Book. These books become great, and not just good, because of the way that truth is expressed. There will be many who disagree, saying that books don't necessarily need to reveal truth, or even asking what is truth, but you know it when you find it, especially within the pages of a book.
Think back to all the stories that touched your life, that really made an impact on you. There was something a character said or did that resonated with who you are or who you want to become. A great book comes from a combination of truth flowing from the pen of a writer who has command of the language to the point where language is no longer important except that it conveys the world in a new and incredible light.
My favorite books are often simple, but the writing is so clear and evocative, even in simplicity, that it strikes some part of who I am. The Alchemist, The Little Prince, The Graveyard Book. These books become great, and not just good, because of the way that truth is expressed. There will be many who disagree, saying that books don't necessarily need to reveal truth, or even asking what is truth, but you know it when you find it, especially within the pages of a book.
Think back to all the stories that touched your life, that really made an impact on you. There was something a character said or did that resonated with who you are or who you want to become. A great book comes from a combination of truth flowing from the pen of a writer who has command of the language to the point where language is no longer important except that it conveys the world in a new and incredible light.
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