Tag: art

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art Novel process Writing

A letter to my advanced fiction students:

Dear Amazeball Writers,

I am working on my novel today and thinking about class last night. I am very proud of every one of you for understanding the level of work it takes, not to just publish a novel, but to publish a novel of worth.

Last year, one of my former students emailed me to say she had good news. She asked if we could talk. Of course, I said sure. We spoke. She told me that she and another former student of mine were starting their own publishing house and they would publish my novel that was rejected by 60+ editors. They are going to publish themselves also.

I was very kind and thanked her, but said no. I didn’t say, “Absolutely not.” I didn’t want to be rude, and I know a romance writer who has successfully gone this route, but I personally (and I think wisely) don’t think it’s a good idea to validate your need to get published by publishing on your own (maybe it’s different if you’re writing formulaic romance), not when you just want to get published and you’re not mindful of publishing really amazing prose. There are more crappy books than good ones. Unfortunately. But, do you want to publish something crappy?

My friend, novelist Susan Gilmore, and I were both represented by Shaye Areheart, a division of Crown Random House. And with her last book, they told her it was “perfect,” not to change a word. According to her, she should’ve known the jig was up. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is ever perfect. Susan’s novel wasn’t ready to be in the world. Her publishing house didn’t care enough about her or her work to dismantle it and make her rewrite. Note: that publishing house, Share Areheart, was about to be dissolved by Random House.

Criticism, whether from peers, agents, or editors, is meant to make us better writers. Criticism is meant to make our work undeniable, something a reader can’t put down. The act of writing is a selfish, amazing act of exploration and creativity. The act of publishing is a business proposition. You can self-publish today, but the question is, “Do you want to publish something that’s just ‘okay’ because it’s a story or has a good character?” No, of course not. You want to publish a work of art, something that makes your reader swoon.

If the only person telling you that your book deserves to be published is you, there’s a reason for that. I feel like everyone here in our class recognizes what’s of worth and is open to making their prose better, and that’s what a real writer is.

“Talent is as cheap as table salt. The only thing that separates a talented artist from a successful one is a lot of hard work.” Stephen King

Now back to the grind.

Categories
art process Writing

New Excerpt from Work-in-Progress

I am painting and collaging again and taking pictures of things I want to paint like the gorgeous trees around my neighborhood.

Here is an excerpt of a chapter that I wrote and found humorous. Enjoy.

Father Knows Best

Richard Wells drives on autopilot, how he would on his way home from the office, his mind blank, west on 29, through Centreville and Gainesville, then south on Route 15’s curvy, mountainous road, south on 33 to Route 6, past the cinderblock market where a Coca-Cola sign, bleached white, hangs from rusted hinges.

            Richard takes a left at the AG and pulls onto the side of the road, the stray cats gathering around his Land Rover. Deb made it clear as crystal that if he didn’t stay away, she would tell his wife and kids about the affair and about Lola. Irritated, he blows his horn.

            What in god’s name is he doing here in Rock Gap? He hasn’t thought his actions through. He hasn’t thought, period, doesn’t feel that he can think—that he has freewill. He is rolling up his window and driving to the trailer, pulling up beside Deb’s old Chrysler and cutting the engine. His daughter lives in poverty. He’s sent cash to Deb but can’t risk writing a check. His wife keeps tabs on their finances. His middle daughter is in graduate school. Before he can think what to say or drive away, Deb is coming through the trailer door, hands in the air. “What the fuck are you doing here?” A dozen cats disperse from between her feet.

            Richard is confused. He rolls the window down. “I don’t know.” He sighs and knocks his forehead against the steering wheel. “I have no clue what I’m doing here.”

            “Then, get. Go away!”

            But he’s here. He checks his watch. He’s missing two meetings. “Is she here?” he asks.

            “Yeah, but you can’t see her.”

            “Your hair is green.”

            “Shut up.”

“Does she remember me?” He rests his head on his arms. “When the trailer’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’? Remember?”

“What are you doing here? Seriously? Are you having a midlife crisis nervous breakdown thing?”

“Seriously, I have no idea. I was on my way to a meeting, and then I was almost here. It was the weirdest thing.”

“Yeah. Sounds like it. We’ve discussed this. You need to leave.” She turns and returns to the trailer.

Richard has missed the first meeting, and he’s not going to make the second. He needs to at least call someone, and he heard about a guy who got scabies from a payphone, so he’s not doing that. He gets out of his car and goes to the trailer. He wonders if Deb’s room looks the same. Is the mattress the same? She was a gorgeous thing with a tight ass and legs for days. Who meets a woman in a roadside park and hooks up? He did: Richard Wells. It was the best pussy of his life.

He knocks on the trailer door and it opens. He steps inside. “Deb?” He heads down the hallway to her bedroom. A couple of cats block his path but he nudges them out of the way with his foot. “Deb?” he says again, opening her bedroom door. She’s reading a book like when he first met her. She was reading Camus. So mysterious—a girl in a bikini reading Camus on a hot summer day.

“Get out.”

“What are you reading?”

“Get out.”

“Don’t be like that. I drove all this way.”

She’s on her feet now, hands at her waist. She’s like a little child. Is she going to throw a tantrum? He would’ve figured a way to get her and Lola out of this dump. He loves Lola. She was six-years-old the last time he saw her in person. She’s probably changed a lot. Teenagers are miserable creatures. Barely human.

“I’ll call the police,” Deb says.

“Can I just use your phone? I need to make a couple of calls.”

“The phone’s in the kitchen.”

“I could use your phone.”

“You can’t.”

He walks toward the kitchen and she follows. It seems a shame to have driven all this way and get nothing out of it. “Is Lola here? Can I talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“You don’t know,” he says.

“Well, she’s not here,” Deb says.

“I hope to reconnect with her one day,” he says. “She was a pretty little girl.”

“Make your call and go.”

“You still have the cats?”

Deb leans with her back against the countertop. Her face is almost gruesome in the fluorescent lighting.

Richard picks up the phone. “It’s long distance. Sorry.”

Deb sits on the couch as he dials. She lights a cigarette and a cat purrs, rubbing its nose against her arm.

His phone call is quick. He just had to explain his absence. “No car accident. I came to see my hot ex-mistress.” He laughs. The man on the other end of the line laughs. “Oh yeah,” he says. “You know it.”

As he leaves, he hands Deb a five-dollar bill. Being ungrateful, she tries to give it back to him. “For the phone call,” he says. She can buy a small pizza or five of those Totino’s pizzas. “Tell Lola I stopped by. Maybe I’ll come back. My kids are all grown now.”

“Don’t do that.” She watches him get in the car.

“You look good.” He wants to make her feel good. She doesn’t look great. She looks like she needs a spa day. She looks haggard.

“Whatever,” she says.

“We have a kid,” he reminds her.

“Please leave.”

“Tell Lola I was here.”

“Maybe.”

He’s leaning out the window again. “Do you still have the office number?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Tell Lola to call me. I’ll come back. I haven’t seen her in ten years.”

“We’ll see.”

“Don’t keep me from my daughter or her from me because you’ve got beef with me.”

“We’ll see,” Deb says, returning to the trailer, the cats on her heels.

Categories
art Novel process Writing

Altered States

Altered States

Two days ago, I was riding in the car with Danny, running errands, and I said, “Oh my god. I just realized that I get paid to write. I’ll have money after I sell my book. I can pay for Chrissy’s college.”

            And he said, “Ha ha. You just realized that? What are you talking about?”

            I’m finishing book #5, GLOSS, and I’m very excited about it. It’s a fun book, a feminist manifesto of sorts, and structured like an accordion. I’ve been working on it every day for the past two years, and I’ve really enjoyed the process, but yes, I forgot that I would actually make money when I sold the book.

            Why?

When I wrote using a typewriter.

            Two-or-so years ago, I finished my fourth novel. After a few rewrites, it was accepted by my literary agent, and she’s a great agent. Very smart. (We had a bidding war for my first novel. We’ve been pals since 2008.) She sent it off to various editors and the waiting-game started.

When your book is sent out, it’s an anxious time when you wait and wait to hear which editors are interested. You think about bidding wars and working with editors and what the cover might look like. You think about readers turning pages and seeing it in bookstores and libraries.

Well, no one wanted to represent it. The feedback was non-specific, nothing I could fix, just the “I just don’t love it enough to represent it at this time,” and “I’m really looking for something else right now,” and “As much as I would like to represent this book, I feel someone with more passion for the characters would be a better advocate,” and all the “Michele writes beautifully, yada yada, but this just isn’t for me right now” stuff.

            We tried another round of editors and got the same response. Understand that agents do not take books out and submit them to editors if they don’t think they will sell. I had spent five years writing and revising this novel. It is in part about my son growing up and my dad dying and being caught in that middle spot in life. I am proud of the book, but it didn’t sell.

            I think all total, the book was submitted to sixty different editors. At one point, I took a few months and rewrote the novel from a new point of view. Again, I’m proud of the book. It still didn’t sell.

            So, in order to start writing something new during Covid and a deep depression and crippling anxiety about the book not selling and living during a pandemic (I mean deep and crippling), I started taking online writing workshops and teaching online writing workshops. I had to go back to basics. I had to rethink what I do and why I do it, and it isn’t about money. It’s about art and craft and making a world on the page. I made new, amazing writer friends and I started to think differently.

I had to remember what it was to write for me and not what I thought people might want to read or what might sell. I had to remember that writing stories is a gift. I had to be grateful and not bitter. According to my agent, it wasn’t that my book wasn’t good. It was just that what I was writing wasn’t what was selling or popular during that particular market. There is a business side to writing and then there is the artistic, creative side, and never the twain shall meet.

Fast-forward to 2022. I am revising my fifth novel. I work on it every day. I am excited to send it to my agent, and I hope she likes it, but I have preached to my students and myself so long and so hard about art and craft and letting the subconscious guide you, that I forgot about the money. I forgot that I get paid to do this. I am in no hurry to finish the book because I want it to be amazing. I had to disassociate money and art.

I got a job at a restaurant this year. It’s fun and interesting–seeing the inner workings. And my coworkers are cool.

I teach amazing, brilliant writers online. I adore them and their words.

If I never publish again, I’ll still write. But the thing is, I know I’ll publish. I don’t doubt it. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. It’s just that my self-worth was so inextricably tied to publishing and book sales, I couldn’t see the worth of my craft. But the money is the business side, and I’m the artist side. I’m amazed that I was finally able to separate the two. I’m glad I got that shit straight in my head. It was a long time coming.