. Spinning .

Thanks to 2 Blowhards for this article: Wannabes beware, writing isn’t a matter of staying the course.

I personally wish that the majority of those who "have that novel" in them just ignore that fact.  There is not a sudden rise in good writers, just a suddenly easy access via computer to not only the means to type out the words, but the support of thousands of just-as-delusioned wannabes via the internet to bolster one’s ego.  And unfortunately, it’s rarely the true talent that believes the b.s.  Not just platitudes that keep these coals burning; "writers" of any little smidgin of hope have developed the thick skin through online critique so they’ve passed that hurdle and now believe themselves to be well on the road to publishing.  It’s managed to clog the road and build the slushpiles to overwhelming heights.  On the other hand, it has encouraged some with talent and willingness to hone their skill to get farther than that "secret desire."  And that’s a good thing.  I’m hoping that I’m in the latter group rather than the former; my innate lack of confidence would never have gotten me this into it without feedback from those I trust to be honest all these many years.

But in the article, I particularly like this closing:

If all writing were forbidden, the stories written in secret would be the ones we needed to read. It’s not writing that should be encouraged but reading, widely and voraciously, reading the classics, reading the modern masters. That, if my university lecturers are right, is what will bring out the real writers among us. Magazine editors, publishers and writing competitions are groaning under the output of all those writing courses and I want to say stop. Stop if you can. And if you can’t stop, write.

Gazpacho‘s done as much it can be.  It was submitted because I felt comfortable that it had gone as far as it could in its best direction. 

Now I think When The Crows Gather is at that point (though I did find that little technical glitch luckily, even after I had rewritten and edited and redirected for a week and called it done) as well.

So I turned my attention back to one of my favorites that had also been sitting in the "Finished Stories" folders on the hard drive.  Few. Hmmm.  I’m already up to Draft #8, and I don’t renumber a draft for minor changes.  I’d forgoten that I had actually done a lot of work on changing it a while ago.  In reading that latest draft, I didn’t feel too bad about it; I really liked what I’d done with it so far.  So what needed to be changed?  Well, there ere a few things I saw and started working on, but there was nothing that obviously hit me.

But then, just a few minutes ago, in one of those dark garage, coffee and a smoke moments, it did hit me.  What this story needed perhaps–and this I had played around with a bit in my mind–was a conversation between Few, the garbage heap, and Raggyman, the wandering college student, that revealed them a bit more, that forged a bond.  The answer came to me:  Marquez and his Remedios.   Or perhaps Octavio Paz and his story, My Life With the Wave.

Can a surreal character intelligently discuss surrealism?   Or is he in fact the best choice. 

Here’s why you really need a writers group or at the very least, a good reader:  technical flaws.

Even if you’ve gotten used to your group’s opinions and varied styles in writing, and even if you’ve adjusted or chosen to continue on your own path, you’re bound to overlook an obvious technical problem in your story that someone else, especially someone who’s not into your style of writing, will more easily spot.

I don’t know if I trust myself to ever send out Crows; just found an obvious huh? regarding a snowmobile, and tracks made on a previous lovers’ weekend, and how the hell did he manage to sneak it out of the garage then anyhow? 

Someone in the group would’ve caught that, I’m sure.  And they would’ve caught "and the hungry crows can smell the dinner bell ring" but that, that I’m leaving in because it’s metaphor.  But boy, I could have used the feedback anyway.

New records set here:

#1  The fastest turnaround (rejection) ever from a lit journal, Small Spiral Notebook.  Submission sent out on January 26th, received today,  February 9th.  I really thought they’d like this, too.

#2  The fastest mood change ever–aside from anything having to do with food.  Just check the time of the previous "up" posting.

I no longer wallow in self-pity.  I’m too busy wondering exactly what they’re looking for…

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times nor how insistent I may be that writing’s just not worth my time and effort any more.  If there is something left undone, a story that isn’t quite what I want it to be–regardless of what others want or seem to want to read and publish–it’s going to be there to annoy me until it gets its due.

Two days after declaring Crows a disaster, I went back into it this morning.  It’s weird; I can use all I’ve learned from classes, reading, writing, critiqueing and just watching people interact, and yet I’m not always sure what a story’s trying to ask me to say. Crows changed dramatically in the end–just a simple paragraph but one that lets me in on the secret it’s been building to reveal.  Suddenly, it turned from a fairly literary horror story to more strictly literary with a grotesque ending, though from an action/plot point of view, it remains the same.

The difference?  One final act by each of the characters that changes who I thought they were; who they thought they were.  And there’s my resolution and characters affected by this brief episode in their lives.  What’d’ya know…a story.