I made three decisions about my writing while I was tossing and turning until 5 a.m. this morning (possibly later, but I clearly remember looking at the clock at 5:02).
First, I need to finish editing the mystery that has been languishing on my desk for over a year. I’ve worked on it in fits and starts, but that’s no way to preserve continuity or get the job done. Granted, I’m talking more than basic grammar and structure errors here-- there are some pretty serious plot flaws to fix (or I could just sell it as a screen play since no one in Hollywood seems to mind plot holes big enough to drive a truck through), but I know it’s all fixable and it’s a pretty good story. I just need to dedicate my time to it-- at least a month, but probably no more than two-- and get it circulating.
Second, I need to write about my childhood if for no one else but myself. I’m thinking a series of essays loosely linked. Whether it would be saleable or not (or whether I’d even want to sell it or not) is up for debate, but I think I’d probably benefit from getting it down on paper. It would be good therapy (and who couldn’t use a little therapy, hmm?) as well as making me a better writer by forcing me to write honestly about my own life.
Third, I need to start writing a new book and get back on the path I want to be with my writing. Much as I love writing (and selling, let’s not forget selling) other things, I want to write novels. So, while I lay there trying to sleep this morning, I began plotting a new book. I started writing it this afternoon and am well into the first chapter. This is good. This makes me happy. That’s what it’s all about.
See, there are some benefits to being an insomniac on a caffeine high.
If I can’t write anything worth reading, the least I can do is change my banner so it looks like something exciting is going on here. One day, when I have the money, I will let the chicks at BlogMoxie design a beautiful new layout worthy of the fascinating tale that is my life (please note the sarcasm there). Until then, you’re stuck with my rudimentary design skills which are coloring-book quality, at best. I do know how to amuse myself, though.
So, I am mostly recovered from The Incident TM. We shall not speak of it again. I’m wired on coffee and should be spinning this energy into a tale of danger and intrigue (starring the redhead above), when instead I’m doing anything but.
I hit the bookstore tonight. Ahh… what angst and heartbreak exists there. Perusing the shelves of endless books written by countless authors and none of them me. Crushing, I tell you. I’m conceited enough to know I’m as worthy of shelf space as, say, Dr. Phil and yet I’ve been beaten down by rejection so many times I have to pause and wonder if it’s worth it.
I wrote 950 pages the year after my first little novel sold. That’s roughly a quarter of a million words. I wrote my little heart out, trying to sell another book. I didn’t sell a single word. Zip. Nothing. Reject. Try again. Do over. Over and over and over again. Talk about an experience in humility. It’s enough to bring a tear to your eye, isn’t it? Yeah, yeah.
Strangely enough, I’m still writing. Whether it’s a triumphant story of perseverance and talent or a cautionary tale of failure and despair remains to be seen. But I’ll keep at it until they pry my cold, dead fingers from the keyboard. Why? Because back there in that last paragraph I wrote “my first little novel” without even thinking about it. Only someone truly in love with writing (or truly stupid?) would write “first” in the same sentence mentioning 950 unsold pages of blood, sweat and tears. I guess I must believe it’s worth the rejection and the insecurities and the depression and the drinking problem (well, not yet… but we all know it’s only a matter of time) and the sheer terror of failing yet again, in the hopes that I’ll once again be among the countless authors taking up space at Barnes and Noble. Otherwise I wouldn’t write “first,” right?
Yeah, it’s worth it. That kind of blissed out nirvana is worth whatever suffering it takes to get there. I just need to remind myself of that more often.
I was going to write something deep and thought-provoking about writers, creativity and depression, but then I ran across this little nugget of research online:
Recent studies have shown that poets and writers are four times more likely than others to suffer from affective disorders, particularly manic depression. Dickinson, Eliot, and Poe are among the many poets who suffered from an affective illness. Writers such as Balzac, Conrad, Dickens, Emerson, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Ibsen, Melville, and Tolstoy also suffered from the illness. In many cases, the writer’s depression led to suicide: John Berryman, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf. (Excerpted from the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention?s “About Suicide")
Obviously, I can’t be depressed while I’m just a struggling, unknown, hack writer. I’ll have to wait until I’m a success (ha!) to allow myself that luxury. But there is something depressing-- and perhaps ironic?-- about aspiring to follow in the footsteps of troubled, damaged, suicidal individuals who were incredibly gifted but too tormented by their own demons to enjoy their success.
I write about sex, but this isn’t a sex blog. I mention this because a lot of people are discovering my site using keywords like sex and erotica. I’m sure they are sadly disappointed to show up here and find me talking about books, poetry, John Kerry and insomnia, among other things. That is not to say I will never talk about sex. It’s likely to come up because a) I write erotica, b) there are many issues that interest me with regard to sexuality and c) I happen to really like sex.
Having said all that, I’ve noticed the trend in sex blogs has exploded in the past few years. Essentially, sex weblogs are online journals written by real people about real experiences. At least, that’s what they claim. I think there is a hefty dose of creative license being taken in some cases as the writers blend fact and fiction to satisfy their readers as well as their own exhibitionistic tendencies. It’s like leaving your windows open for the neighbors to watch and making sure you put on a good show.
I’ve read several weblogs over the years that were either mostly or entirely about sex. Some are slick and well-written, some are achingly personal and human, some read like poorly conceived teenage fantasies. It’s a great big internet and there’s room for everyone, but I don’t really get why sex bloggers do it. For one thing, they almost always have to maintain their anonymity in order to write about the things they do. Remaining anonymous is difficult when you’re talking about your personal life. Names have to be changed, places and situations have to be altered, and still you run the risk of discovery.
For another thing, their hard work and writing skills are getting them nothing but a lot of hits on their web page, a need for ever increasing bandwidth and probably a fair amount of kinky fan mail. Oh, sure, there is the occasional book contract, as I mentioned regarding Belle de Jour. But for the most part, these naughty little weblogs are labors of love. It seems like an awful lot of work when some of these writers are good enough to get paid for their efforts.
Among my other writing credits, I write erotica. In fact, the bulk of my fiction writing for the past few years has been erotica-- straight and lesbian. It’s fun and challenging to write about sex in a way that’s new and arousing. People have become so jaded by the internet and cable (not to mention the Super Bowl), it’s a kick to be able to write something that provokes a response. That’s true of anything I write, actually. And while I realize the word ‘erotica’ is equivalent to the word ‘porn’ to a lot of people, I’m writing about more than sex when I write erotica. My erotica is about relationships, identity, acceptance and love. Sure, it’s also about sex. Passionate, arousing, life-affirming sex. We should all be so lucky to have the kind of sex lives I write about.
Though I will occasionally write about sex and promote my erotica without apology, this will never be a sex blog. It’s doubtful you will ever see my fiction here unless it’s an excerpt to promote my work. And I won’t be writing any sexy vignettes about what I did last night or what I want to do this weekend. Not because the topic of sex embarrasses me, but because I choose not to be anonymous on the web. I prefer to give you a balanced picture of me and I try to be as honest as I can; but just like in my real day-to-day life, there are things I won’t share with everyone.
I want people to know who I am and read what I write. Sex is very important to me, but it is only part of who I am-- and part of what I write.
A poem by Dorothy Parker, because I’m too lazy to write my own and she said it better than I could.
Neither Bloody nor Bowed
They say of me, and so they should,
It’s doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
Accumulating dividends,
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice,
And though to good I never come-
Inseparable my nose and thumb!
And one more, for Spalding Gray and every writer who has considered it.
Coda
There’s little in taking or giving,
There’s little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest’s for a clam in a shell,
So I’m thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?
I suspect I would have liked Dorothy Parker quite a lot.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
