New writers are encouraged to read, and so read I did – about the evils of misrepresentation, the cleverness of subverted tropes, the laughable Mary Sue phenomenon, fantasy clichés, fantasy subgenres, new books, classic books, books that I could have written better, books that put my prose to shame, books that irritated me for reasons I could not identify…
My fiction feels like a way to prove myself, and that isn’t healthy. The relationship must either change or end. A follow up to my last post.
Yes, it’s been a while. Forgive the delay – I had a strange work schedule and several class projects to juggle. Anyhow, back to the matter at hand, which can be summed up like this: “I’m writing a book, but I don’t know what it’s about.”
How the beautiful promise of a published novel narrowed my focus too much. I did consider stopping, once or twice, but the idea terrified me. Wasn’t the NIP (novel-in-progress) my anchor? Wasn’t it the reason I studied literature and creative writing, and read widely, and started this website – and wasn’t it my lifelong dream to be the Author of a Book? There was no other job I wanted to do. There was nothing else I was this good at. What else could I do with my life?
I’ve got some catching up to do: books to read, a book to write, a new course of study on the horizon…
As always, the Halloween season has been great fun. At work as a tour guide, I introduced people to the wonders of autumn, told semi-spooky stories, and gave out countless candies. It rained, and it was chilly, but the kids wore raincoats under their capes and wings and still had a good time.
Now I’m eyeing the row of books that have accumulated on my shelf over the past few weeks – Ada Hoffman’s The Outside, Perpetual Astonishment by Tomson Highway, and Esi Edugyan’s Out of the Sun.
Autumn is nearly here! After another summer without air conditioning this can only be good news in my house. I’m thinking of having a kind of mini harvest festival to celebrate the turn of the season – something involving apples and a bonfire.
From my year in Europe to the final excruciating days of writing draft two.
In 2003, aged 9, I decided to write a novel. Nearly 20 years later, I’m still working on it. Find out why.