Tag Archives: writing

Curley Sue: A Cautionary Tale

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I met a guy at a writer’s conference who only wrote in suburban Marriott bars. He was jaded, sad, tragic, frustrated with the poverty, oppression and generally suckiness of being a writer. Of course, I loved him. He was drunk. He couldn’t pitch his book. He loved his story. I might have been talking in the mirror. Except for the drunk part. None for me, thanks, I’m driving. Sober as a judge.

I’m in the bar at a Hilton in Toledo, Ohio, and I want to warn you all of the tragedy, frustration, and general suckiness of squandering time. Last night, we got done early from the software installation at a local hospital. I had hours to write, and write, and write. I have a lot to do. I have stuff to read for my critique group. I have stuff to read for friends. I have stuff to do. Being writer means having homework for the rest of your life. I think Lawrence Kasdan said that. He wrote The Empire Strikes Back. Oh yeah.

But did I write, and read, and do my homework? No.

Stay with me. I’m about to jump. Like in Battlestar Galactica. JUMP! Back in 1998. I was thirteen years younger. Late twenties. I was just married. I was flirting with the idea of writing for reals. Just flirting. Nothing serious. I was too scared for serious. I was terrified of serious. And one Sunday, I watched the movie Curley Sue. I was in that tragic state of wanting to do something, but not being motivated to do anything. I knew I didn’t want to watch Curley Sue. But I couldn’t move. John Hughes had me spellbound. I was trapped. Like a rat. Like a writer at a suburban hotel chain, in the bar, writing books no one would ever read.

Life is too short for watching movies you don’t really want to watch. Life is too short to avoid doing the things that bring life and power to ourselves and others. Life is not about hiding in ice cream and TV. Life is about doing the hard things that task us. Like from Star Trek II, it tasks me, it tasks me.

So last night, I Curley Sue’d. I watched Monday Night Football. It was tragic. I did feel manly, and the game was good, but it was still Curley Sueing.

And so, tonight, we stayed late at the hospital. There were bugs that needed to be stepped on. We got as many as we could, but here it is, late, and we have to be there early tomorrow morning. I blew it. But I’ll get my homework done, well, the little piece I can, and I’ll be a little light on sleep, and I’ll regret the hours I squandered when I had the time.

Do you know what the trick is? It’s to put writing first. Yesterday, I went up to my room, thinking I would write later. Later will never come. So tonight after dinner, I headed for the bar. I’m drinking de-caf coffee. It’s very fine. But I’m doing my writing first. Because writing will never happen later. Other things will happen later, but not writing. Writing will only ever happen right now.

I love de-caf coffee. Not manly, but it beats Curley Sueing myself out of life.

Why I Have To Be Better Than You, or Remember the Alamo!

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I love the Alamo, the story of the Alamo, the massacre at the Alamo, all things Alamo. It was American tragedy at its best. Most American tragedies deal with slavery, genocide, or unrestrained greed. The Alamo was just a group of men, outnumbered, defending a fort against overwhelming odds. Please ignore the imperialism behind the story, just concentrate on the men, William Travis, Jim Bowie, Davy Crocket and a line in the dirt. You know the story, William Travis drew a line in the dirt and made it clear, “To cross this line is to fight with me to the death.” Those that wanted, could leave, but those with the courage had to cross the line though it meant certain death. But oh what a death it would be.

In America, we don’t like the idea of losing. We’re winners. When was the last time you saw an American mainstream movie where the hero loses? We don’t like it. But we love the Alamo because it was a few against many. We love the underdog.

I love the underdog.

Which is probably why I write books. Mario Acevedo says being a writer is most likely harder than being a navy seal because it takes years to become a writer for most of us. How long does it take to be a navy seal? Google it, baby, ‘cause that’s not my job today.

Writing a novel is like standing on the ramparts of the Alamo: my little book is just one book facing the hordes of books out there, one against many. Most likely I’ll die, but the line has been drawn in the dirt. It’s up to me to cross it and try. It’s a romantic idea. In reality, it scares the PB&J out of me.

I have a deep seated belief that I have to be the best, that if I’m not , I might as well not play. I have to be better than you, or I’m worth nothing. This is an insane idea and it fills me with suffering.

I like writing books. Other people have said they like reading them. Should I stop writing because I probably won’t be rich and famous? Should Davy Crockett have run off when he knew to stay was certain death?

Life is showing up, doing what you love, and struggling forward. Always. Fighting the good fight when all you want to do is cry and give up. I can do my crying in the grave. Now is the time to cross the line and fight.

And if I’m not better than you, well, I had a good time, and God bless ya.

One man fled from the Alamo. He failed to cross the line. His name was Moses (Louis) Rose. He died uneventfully. I won’t let the same be said of me.

So let us cross that line together, my friends. Let us make our stand in the words and sentences we write and let our paragraphs be our citadels, our books our fortresses, against despair and death.

http://library.flawlesslogic.com/alamo.htm

Montagues, Capulets, Genre Fiction, Literary Fiction and Me, Trapped in the Middle with You

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There’s a weird dynamic that happens when a genre fiction writer meets a literary fiction writer. A suspiciousness. Like we’re two dogs from different packs circling each other. Now this is crazy! We both fish out of the same water. We’re both trying to do the same thing which is to write words for an emotional\spiritual reaction. And in the end, I’m not sure how much we get to choose what we write. It’s the old thing with Stephen King and Robert Frost, looking at a New England pond. One will have monsters. The other inspiration on the beauty and truths of life. Both will string words together to capture the experience.

Okay, now, this is a complete generalization, that genre fiction writers and literary fiction writers are constantly battling like Montagues and Capulets. I had dinner with a fiction writer, Eleanor Brown who wrote The Weird Sisters. We didn’t duel with steak knives. Well, we were at a Mexican food place. We shattered Corona bottles and tried to slash each other with the broken ends. Kidding.

However, after Saturday night, at the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers conference, after I blew it with a nice literary fiction writer, I had to figure out what happens when I meet someone writing literary fiction. Me. Only me. My reaction as a soon to be published genre writer. Let’s say I’m the Mercutio, caught between the Montagues or the Capulets. Or Friar Lawrence. No, Mercutio, he was so much more mercurial.

This is what happens when I meet a writer and I ask, “What do you write?” And they answer, “I write literary fiction.” My immediate reaction is, “Yeah, right.” Yeah, I know, I’m horrible, but this is the truth. If I can’t be honest with you, World, who can I be honest with? I’ll share all of my dirty secrets. Except maybe for two or three that only Chris Devlin knows. And she is a vault, baby.

So there I am, thinking, “Yeah, right, you can write literary fiction? Who do you think you are?” In essence, I think THEY are saying, “I can write better than you, genre fiction boy. Wanna go up against the champ?” And I don’t. I get afraid.

So after I scoff, I get afraid. Maybe they do write better than me! Oh my gosh, maybe I can’t write at all. Maybe I should give up and never, ever write again. I hear there are other things to do with one’s time. Collect stamps. Photography. Maybe join the Elk’s Club.

All the while, the literary fiction writer is inching toward the door because I’m losing it. Usually, I keep this all to myself. But not last Saturday night. Oh boy. Total and complete meltdown. And if you know me, once I start to blow it socially, I don’t stop digging until we’re all buried.

Now, there is some historical precedence to the whole literary versus genre fiction thing. I wrote a paper on Science Fiction as Literature in college, and one of the things that happened during the 1950’s is that science fiction became so incredibly popular that publishing houses opened up the doors to anything, and I mean anything. I heard a story recently that since the writers got paid by the word that they would sometimes overwrite scenes just to get more cash. Five pages of a guy brushing his teeth. True story. And so, a lot of junk hit the market. And maybe you could say the same thing about romance novels, fantasy novels, mysteries, et cetera. There have been booms and busts for genres. How many cut-rate horror novels were there in the late 70’s and early 80’s?
So, yeah, maybe there was been trash published in genre fiction.

And yes, there is still a stigma. I was talking with a college professor who was also a famous novelist. I shan’t name names. I told him I wanted to get published. He sniffed and said I should dash off a mystery. They’re so easy and they seem to sell.

But the truth is, writing is hard, whether you are writing mysteries, romances, or literary novels. It’s hard. My friend says that it’s like building a table with 23 legs. It’s all hard. We should be supporting one another.

But I will learn from my experience. No more scoffing. No more fear. The next time I meet a literary fiction writer, I’m going to hug them and cry into the crook of their neck. I’m going to weep and say, “My brother, my sister, my soul, my heart, my fellow writer. Let us journey together for we are both bound by blood, ink, and sweat.”

Yeah, then they won’t think I’m weird at all.

P.S. A friend of mine from a writer’s workshop long ago has asked me to critique her literary novel because she said, and I quote, “You know your sh*t.” I’m so excited. I love books. Whether they be literary, genre, dripping wet in the bath, or bone dry boring. I love books.

P.P.S. A last dirty little secret. A last confession. I want to do both. I want to do genre and literary in the same stories. And not just a little magical realism. No, full on, in your face, genre stuff but with a beautiful, literary bent. Think Margaret Atwood. Think David Lynch meets Stephen King meets frakking Shakespeare. Hey, that’s my first novel. Anyway. Oh, to dream. All writers are dreamers because to write is to dream, and perhaps Mercutio put it best. Maybe he is talking about all writing in the passage below because all fiction, all stories, are dreams.

True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.