Assuming makes an ass out of you and me.

Last week, I got an email from someone who'd found my name through an SCBWI web page, and wanted to invite me to join a writing group, and stated that one of their requirements was: "We specifically want members who are interested in promoting a Christian world view via children's literature. The writing does NOT need to be explicitly religious or spiritual, but we want members who can commit to this purpose."

I have to admit that I was more than a little taken aback by this. Set aside, for a moment, the question of whether or not children's literature should espouse a particular religious world view, and consider the blind audacity of emailing someone of whom you know nothing about and inviting them to join your religious group.

She found my name on a list of children's writers; she knew absolutely nothing more about me. And yet, her first assumption was that I was Christian. It doesn't matter whether I am or I am not; what matters is that, as a member of the majority, she automatically assumed I was too. I can hardly imagine a Jewish person making the same assumption, let alone a Muslim or a Hindu or a Buddhist.

I will tell you that I was sorely tempted to mess with her and write back that I couldn't join her group because I was Muslim or Hindu or something else, but I decided against it and just responded that I didn't think I would fit in with their group. (In so doing, I too was making assumptions, that they weren't "my" kind of Christians, that they'd be offended by the use of magic in my stories, or that they'd try to dissuade me from writing about sex or using swear words should the need arise.)

It got me thinking a lot about the assumptions we all make in daily life. As a white, middle class female, I know I make a lot of assumptions based on my own status and privilege, and it worries me. I would rather take an active role in educating myself and draw my own conclusions about my bias than have it pointed out to me by an unhappy reviewer many years down the line.

Ignorance is a frightening prospect, especially for those of us who like to consider ourselves well educated. But the first step is recognizing it, and the second is choosing to educate ourselves and move away from ignorance toward understanding.

2009

New year, new resolve to work on the book! I'm headed back to basics this month to fill in some gaps. Started out by re-reading James Smith's You Can Write a Novel, and I'm working through his basic steps for setting things up, starting with character cards.

You know what's hard? Fatal flaws are hard. I know enough from fan fiction to tell you that one sure sign of a Mary Sue is if her biggest flaw is that she's too pretty, or too nice; stupid flaws that aren't really flaws are the mark of an amateur. Fatal flaws should be, well, possibly fatal. But it's really freaking hard to come up with them.

What would your fatal flaw be if you were a character in a book? I'm not even sure about my own...

"Rocks Fall, Everyone Dies" sounds good right about now.

Almost 35,000 words into my first draft and I'm realizing MAJOR problems. *sigh* I wish I were one of those amazing people who can plot in their heads, write a first draft, and have everything come out crystal clear at the end.

Clearly, however, I am not.

I've been working with Randy Ingermanson's Snowflake Method of plotting, and it's been hugely helpful — in getting me to see the enormous, gaping holes in my plot. I'm not talking about logistical fallacies and events that don't make sense. I'm talking about literal holes in the plot — as in, there isn't one.

The other thing I'm noticing is that my main character isn't doing a whole lot. I mean, she is, she's running around like a crazy person, but she's having things done to her and then reacting to them. Nothing that's taken place so far has been her decision. Which is a problem.

I'm also realizing that I've got a shit-ton of sub plots going on. Maybe more than the book can handle. Maybe more than I can handle! I've got to get a handle on them.

And turn my reactive MC into an action hero.

Still not going to rewrite, though it is practically KILLING me not to. I'm just going to make whatever changes I need to starting on page 137 and move forward. We'll fix it in post, as we used to say in film school.

NaNoWriMo 2008

November 2nd: I'm procrastinating.

Must mean NaNoWriMo!

I've signed up sort of unofficially this year; I want to finish my novel. So, despite the fact that I have about 23k words of a first draft, I'm going to try to get 50k more. In one month.

Here's my progress meter. Keep me honest!

Looking Backward

From my blog in 2004:

Writing can be a terrifying process. If you're writing something that you ever intend to let anyone else read, writing can be as nerve wracking as public speaking, as soul-baring as acting, as emotional as singing. Writing is not for the faint of heart. And you cannot do it simply to please an audience -- at least, not well.

I was looking at the web site of one of my favorite authors, and he said that he doesn't write to be read. He writes because there is nothing else for him to do; it isn't a choice, it's a calling. He says:

"If I were locked in solitary confinement for years on end with paper and pens enough to last me, I'd probably be all right. Unhappy, but sane. If I had no books and nothing with which to write, I imagine I'd end up sitting in my little cell telling stories to the walls. It's not that I require an audience so much as I have to put the thoughts somewhere -- I don't care if anyone ever reads them, so long as they're there."

That's the kind of freedom I wish I had with my writing. That's who I was at three years old, in the photograph my mother gave me. I am sitting on our front porch at the old house wearing an old Halloween costume over my regular clothes, with purple shoes on, my bear clutched in one hand, a short stick in the other, singing to myself and narrating little stories in which I was always the protagonist. I never needed an audience back then. I was my own audience; I contained whole worlds of people and places and things in my head, and my imagination was limitless and effortless and free.

Somewhere along the way, I lost that freedom that comes from not needing anyone's approval but your own. Now I find myself lost in worry that something I've written isn't good enough, isn't spectacular enough, isn't original enough or engaging enough or flashy enough. Enough for what? For whom? Even my own private journal that I write in by hand that no one but me is ever allowed to see, I sometimes censor because it isn't "good" enough. Why? Shouldn't my own thoughts be good enough for me?

Wonder of Wonders

Last night, I wrote the climax scene of my novel in my head as I was lying in bed. This morning, I typed it up.

I've never done that before!

Also, more than a week ago, I wrote the last page of the book. This is so weird. I actually feel like maybe I know where I'm going!

Where oh where could it be?

OK, this is why I'm normally über organized: I KNOW I wrote a scene at one point of an attack on my MC's house, and now I cannot find it to save my life!!!!

This is extremely irritating.

Progress

I left my writing notebook at home today and it is driving me CRAZY!

I just realized that I spent the last five minutes — literally — dithering over whether I should just jot some notes down on some other paper, and if so, which paper, or if I should write them on the computer, or, or, or.

I think this is progress (for my writing life, though possibly regression for my occasional OCD).