Quiet in the library, please
I was seduced by the library again.
That was ‘by’, not ‘in’.
Anyway, the other night Jinky and I were talking and I mentioned a story idea that I was making notes for. I try to write for at least an hour in the morning six days out of seven then I write a little at night if I can stay awake long enough. But I wanted to work on this new story without taking away from the time I allotted with the other current projects.
Writing at my workplace is out of the question. No matter if I sit in the kitchen or at my desk with my (pink) laptop, people feel perfectly comfortable sitting down and striking up a conversation or discussing a work issue. Never mind I’m on my time, not company time.
So I thought the ideal solution would be the public library. It’s barely five minutes away, I don’t know anyone there, it’s a wonderful building, and it’s guaranteed quiet.
Yeah, not so much on the last part. I appreciate the part about libraries needing to be community centers but … you can’t even get quiet in the quiet room. Mothers with herds of children stop to converse, complain, and set up playdates while their offspring stampede through. Retirees socialize and discuss health problems and the state of the world.
I sat in the genealogy room one day, thinking no one would be shaking their family tree at noon on a Tuesday. Except ten minutes into my writing, a woman came over and sat down across from me and blurted out an incredibly convoluted family history without pausing for breath. When she finally stopped after asking for research assistance, I said, “I don’t work here.”
The Current Periodicals Room – the loudest sound should be the rustling of newspaper pages. Except the elderly gentleman reading WSJ was apparently too deaf to realize that it was his phone that played “Fly Me to the Moon” at top volume. He glared at me and snapped, “Aren’t you going to answer that?” “Sure,” I said. “Hand it over.”
After that, I went to sit in my car. Which was good until the meter maid knocked on my window to issue a parking limit warning. I give up!
A First Draft of Crap
Last week was a blur of Book in a Week and kitten cuddling, and believe it or not, the two are actually very similar.
Because an unwritten first draft, like a two-week-old kitten, is vastly different than its mature counterpart. It demands constant attention, endless worry, and just when you think it’s starting to get cute, it lefts its legs and shits all over your favorite T-shirt.
I started Book in a Week still clutching to that nagging fear that someone would sneak up behind me and “out” my crappy first draft for what it was – a crappy first draft. But then I found Nathan Fillion abandoned in what remained of an old car door, and I got my perspective back:
No one wants a first draft full of crap, just like no one wants to poop a kitten every two hours. But if you put in the work it takes to clean it up, the results can be astounding.
Nathan has already put on two whole ounces since Friday. The first draft is moving along more slowly, but gaining weight every day. They both smell incredibly foul, now, but I’m hoping with a lot of attention (and a little luck), the stench will eventually give way to something cute and fuzzy that I won’t mind keeping around.
Good Times at the Workshop
I attended a romance writers’ workshop this weekend and overall, it was good.
Of course, I ended up sitting beside a hypochrondriac, who told me every detail of her health issues despite the fact I hadn’t asked. I sat there and listened like a moron, which is par for my course. One day I will lose my temper enough to say “shut the hell up”. Until then, I curse my mother for drilling manners into me and curse other mothers for not drilling manners into their children. Miss Hypochondriac asked me a brief question about my writing (“Are you working on a story?” to which I replied “yes”) then turned the conversation back to herself and her problems. Except that’s not a conversation, it’s a monologue, and in some cases, it’s a purer form of torture than waterboarding.
But despite my neighbor, I enjoyed the workshop. Two speakers gave great presentations about characters and plotting and story ARCs, then a panel of editors spoke about current hot topics. (Vampires are still hot. The Russian mob, not so much.)
One funny thing is that the workshop was held in a library community room and when it got stuffy, the doors were opened. It was fun to see library patrons stop in their tracks upon hearing certain words, especially during a session about ratcheting up sexual tension. The eavesdroppers would peek in and see a room full of respectable ladies, one of whom was crocheting as she listened, and apparently decide their ears had deceived them so they would scurry past and we’d try not to laugh.
However, it prompted a discussion of using pseudonyms and if it was a wise choice to have more than one. The editors mostly agreed that having only one was best, because unless you cross-referenced your pen names and titles, you might not bring along some of your readers and end up weakening your brand. Most editors agreed that it you were embarrassed to use your own name on your work, your embarrassment would show through in the story and it wouldn’t be an enjoyable experience for anyone.
I respectfully disagree. I’m not embarrassed by anything I write but I have an unwieldy surname. Most people misspell it badly enough that it becomes an entirely different name; therefore a lot of people wouldn’t find my work unless they tried really hard, so I feel that would weaken my brand. And should I become so famous that I sign hundreds of books in one session, I need a moniker that’s easy to scrawl across the page.
Workshops. They always make me think big.
