Is there a 12 step meeting for queriers? Except I’m not really querying now, just waiting for responses on requested material.
Every afternoon, when it’s 6PM and I don’t have any responses in my inbox, I think, “Tonight after Art Child goes to bed I’m going to have a drink, so I will relax and remember only that it’s out of my control at this point.” I even bought lemonade to go with the gin. Instead, by the time I would do this, I walk the beasts, have my 8000th cup of coffee or tea and go to sleep. Art Child and Nerd Child have enjoyed the virgin lemonade.
The other day a comment was made by someone on the writers’ forum, to the effect of if the manuscript is good enough and the query letter is good enough, you only need one agent to request…if that agent rejects, the manuscript isn’t good enough. The type of comment that always makes me freaking nuts. a) It reeks of sanctimonious superiority, and b) it isn’t true. There are many reasons why a manuscript can be rejected, and not all of them have to do with the writing/story. I didn’t respond to the post, because I know I’m feeling overly sensitive right now as I wait for replies, and didn’t trust myself to do more than splutter.
I was thinking about this yesterday, when I walked past a local church and saw several people waiting to go in the side door. I assumed for a 12 step meeting, but it could have been Bingo. Or something. Anyway, it had me thinking about the whole Let Go and Let God approach to what’s out of our control.
Step 12. Oh 12. That’s the spiritual awakening. What is the equivalent of the spiritual awakening here? It could be an offer of rep, but it could also be the acceptance of when it’s time to trunk the manuscript and move on. Maybe it’s the (to me) mythical ideal of writing only for oneself, being satisfied with or without validation. Damn. I’m gonna be asleep forever. Spiritual coma?
To decide to write a book, to do so, to tell people you’re doing it…all of this requires not just a leap of faith but big brass ones. To query, well, that means polishing them up to put them on display. But then once the work is out, humility.
For the moment, I will contemplate cleaning the bathroom, and decide what to cook with the goodies I bought at the farmer’s market this morning. And blast the iPod. Nerd Child always has interesting new (to me) music.
A couple of weeks ago I was having a conversation with a writing friend about the query process. Surprising, it isn’t like I’m obsessed or anything. Sigh. And by conversation, I mean I said something like, “It’s never going to happen, I have a better chance of winning the lottery, blahblahsuckageblah. And my friend said something lovely and supportive like, “Oh, Mrs Fringe. Don’t say that. It can happen for you, it will happen for both of us, you have to have faith.”
I don’t play the lottery on a regular basis, maybe I’ve purchased five tickets over the course of my life. I wasn’t disappointed when I checked the numbers for the same reason I don’t play regularly–I don’t expect to win. I’m no math whiz, but I can look at the odds and know this is not a sensible way to spend a dollar.
I was saying there’s a specific aspect to querying that’s completely illogical, no different than playing the lottery, and yet here I am–hoping to “win,” even sometimes believing I have a shot. My guess (I’m not looking up the numbers and doing math) is that my odds are even worse than if I bought a lottery ticket for every query I send. If you pick the “right” numbers, you win your money, less the government’s share. Fair enough. But if a wannabe claws their way through the slush pile with sharp words and a clear, enticing plot to receive an offer of representation from a reputable agent, that’s just the first step. Because the jackpot (for a wannabe who wants to be traditionally published) isn’t receiving an offer of rep, it’s seeing your book in print, in a bookstore. So step two is the agent querying editors, in hopes of a publishing offer. Only a percentage of agented debut writers/manuscripts actually see a publishing contract. Step three is (hopefully) revisions with an editor and an advance, and then if nothing goes awry–step four, publication. That’s the winning ticket. Golden ticket is if the book actually takes off and you see good sales numbers.
There’s a disconnect, and even a wacky old gal like myself can see it. Too practical to buy lottery tickets, but oh yeah, I’ll query. And I’m lucky. Lucky to be receiving requests from agents to see the full. I wonder if full requests are like winning $2 on a scratch-off ticket, just enough to entice me to keep trying. Each request is a step, but quite far from an offer of rep–not to mention the neuron marbles lost with every ping of my email as I check to see if it’s an agent response. Patience, Mrs Fringe. Patience and faith.
Because I don’t play, I don’t know–do people have systems for playing the lottery, formulas and equations, the way people sit with the racing form at the track? I admit, I used to enjoy going to the track, where I had an elegant formula for which horse to bet on, using the names I liked the best.
My query formula
Above is my system. Sure I use the laptop to write and edit, but it’s a basic composition book for notes on the manuscript, and keeping track of queries. With, of course, my lucky pencil. Yes, it’s true, it’s that one specific type of pencil, exclusive to a Staples near you (maybe, they could be in other office supply stores also).
I had pushed this line of thinking out of my mind, but this morning on Twitter, I saw a tweet from an agent I follow. I think he’s an agent, he tweets anonymously as Agent Vader. For all I know he’s another wannabe, or a she, or the real Darth Vader, or the most powerful literary agent in existence. I don’t care, as long as he doesn’t send me to Jabba the Hutt in metal underwear. He’s often funny, and offers many great one liners about this whole business. Today he tweeted, “Writing is art. Art is subject to perception. This is a lottery. Most people don’t win the lottery.”
Yes. Yes, yes, yes. But I’ve got this little pile of winning scratch-off tickets that say please send me the full. And I’ve got beta readers and family and friends and Fringelings who say keep going. I’m even fortunate enough to have a couple of experienced, knowledgable-about-writing-and-the-publishing-industry friends who have read my work and tell me to keep going. But I’ll be honest, seeing and hearing the realities of this business, the long, long odds that involve the magical combination of writing that’s good enough, story that’s good enough, landing on the right desk at the right time, making the right numbers on a projected Profit and Loss statement in a publishing house, these are equally important. I’m wacky enough to believe I have a real shot, but need to keep my eyes on the sanity of facts and odds at the same time.
(I’ve posted this song/video before, but can’t think of anything more appropriate)
NYC: Liberty Island – Statue of Liberty (Photo credit: wallyg)
I can’t even gather my words into a coherent rant, it’s more of a splutter. A few days ago I read about this case in Indiana. In all honesty, at first I couldn’t read the article all the way through. It’s like opening your front door and seeing something so terrifying, so shocking, your reaction is to slam the door shut, flip all the locks and put the chain on. But you know it’s there, and know it’s only going to gain traction and strength if you don’t open the door again to confront it.
The bottom line, a man in Indiana was drugging and raping his wife for at least three years. She found video clips of this on his phone and pressed charges. Good for her! She did the right thing. No excuses, no taking the law into her own hands. Prosecutors did the right thing, asked for forty years in prison. He was convicted of six felony charges, and sentenced to twenty years. Here’s the part that makes my heart drop to my bowels: He won’t be spending any time in prison. Twelve years were suspended, and he will spend eight years in home confinement. Why? Because it was up to the judge. A judge who told the victim she should forgive her attacker.
On a smaller scale, let me ask why? Why does she need to forgive him? What was done to her was immoral, illegal, unconscionable. Still, in my opinion she showed incredible strength of character by leaving him (so many women feel trapped, afraid and embarrassed in abusive situations they don’t have that strength), and by pressing charges. On a larger scale, how can this sentence be allowed to stand under the guise of justice?
More than why, how? How can this be? How can any judge think this is ok, and where are our leaders to say, “Hey! This can NOT happen in a country that is supposed to be about equality and justice for all.” Anyone who reads Mrs Fringe knows I lean left. But this isn’t about left or right. It’s about assault, it’s about treating women as property. Men and women in positions of authority should be speaking out about this, in my opinion. Especially the women. So where are you, Hillary Clinton, Michelle Obama, Nancy Pelosi, Oprah Winfrey, Jill Abramson, Janet Napolitano, Indra Nooyi, Ursula Burns, Diane Sawyer, Arianna Huffington, Melinda Gates, Ann Coulter–how about Lady Gaga? There are many strong, powerful women in positions of authority in this country. Apparently not enough.
That this woman was drugged and assaulted repeatedly over a period of years is sad and infuriating, but not shocking. Again, horrifying for her (and her children!), but it shouldn’t represent anything grand. There are fucked up people in this world who do fucked up things, maybe I’m cynical, but I believe this will always be the case. But this end result, this judge’s ruling does represent something. It illustrates all too clearly there is someone in this country in a position of power and authority who believes wives are chattel. That judge is an elected official–that tells me there is more than one someone who believes this.
again. Even though I know it wasn’t meant for me, personally. Let’s face it, I’m a complete unknown–which is kind of my point.
Plate coral eating a silverside. So how come I feel more like that fish than the coral?
Earlier this morning I was going about my usual morning procrastinations, checking out Facebook, Twitter, etc, and I came across a link to this piece in the NY Times Book Review/bookends. I know this is a rant I’ve indulged in many times, but aaaargh! First let me say I haven’t read the original Lionel Shriver essay referenced, where she apparently wrote about feeling nostalgic for her previous commercial failure. Mmm hmm. I adore her work and believe she is truly a brilliant writer. Frankly, I’m pretty sure if I read her essay I’m never going to be able to read her fiction with an open mind again. At the moment I’m wishing I didn’t click the link and read what I did.
Francine Prose and Mohsin Hamid each respond to this question of author success, the pros and cons. Of course there are benefits and disadvantages, as there are to every choice, every person’s life/lifestyle/career. Both Ms. Prose and Mr. Hamid are successful authors, and it was Mr. Hamid’s (who for the record, has achieved both commercial and critical success) closing statement that has me pacing and ranting at my dogs.
“It’s a radical thought, but I wonder whether in some way we professional fiction writers might be better off if, like poets of old, we were to make nothing from our writing and had to earn our living elsewhere. Radical or not, it’s how most writers actually live today, working their day jobs, and writing — unpaid, alone, with passion — at night.”
Maybe my reaction is because I’m not part of that lovely “we.” I’ve yet to be paid for any of my words, therefore I am not a professional fiction writer. But I make no secret of the fact that I want to be, and won’t accept being shamed for it. If you want me to, I’ll admit to being a calculating bitch who wants my words to be read and I want to earn a dollar for them.
How unfortunate that my calculations are off. If they weren’t, I’d be part of the we, one of the published, one of the eek! successful.
math disaster (Photo credit: the mad LOLscientist)
What was I doing before screwing around online and reading this link? Obsessing, again, about when I might hear back from agents, and debating with myself about whether or not I’m doing the right thing by holding off on sending more queries until I do. Because I would like to receive an offer of representation, and I would like to be published. I’ll even go so far as to say I dream of being well published, and having my novel be well received. That dirty whisper of success.
I am not the voice of the unpublished everywhere. There are people who say they write solely for themselves, the work is enough, and if they’re never published they’re ok with that. Though I can’t relate to those thoughts, I accept them at face value. But they aren’t my thoughts. As I’ve said many, many times before, I write to be read. When I write, yes, I write the story as I see it, the characters as I imagine them, but I write with readers in mind, thinking about which words might be most appealing, which images will make sense to readers other than myself.
I do appreciate Mr. Hamid’s statements about commercial success involving luck. I read no hint of dismissal or condescension in this, the talent and skill have to be present for any writer to be in a position to receive such luck, but yes, it’s a part of “big” success.
No doubt, there is a certain luxury in the process of writing without contracts or deadlines or expectations. If other areas of my life are extra busy–hell, if I don’t feel like it! I don’t actually have to produce any words. And I’ll go further, at this moment, I don’t have to think about bad reviews on Goodreads, or worry about what my children’s teachers–or my children–will think of me, personally, when/if they read my work. That isn’t nothing, negative reviews and sometimes personal attacks are hurtful, even if you’re cashing a check. From my limited view of the world and the publishing industry, would I trade these luxuries for a few readers and a contract? Absolutely. Am I crass for admitting this? Maybe I’m just not that deep.
When Man Child talks about becoming a chef, and I see him busting his butt putting hours of hard, sweaty labor into it–not just cooking, but learning about other cultures, becoming fluent in other languages, and learning the business skills necessary, I don’t pat him on the head and tell him how wonderful it is that he can cook his own dinner. And no one else responds to him by saying hey, maybe one day you can be a fry cook at McDonald’s.
The reality is that very, very few of those who attain publication will achieve such success that any of this is even a question. As quoted above, not many published authors get to “quit the day job.” No one argues this, not me, not Mr. Hamid, not anyone with any remote connection to the publishing industry. I know this is the reality, but when I dream, that’s what I dream of, not nobly burning my pages for warmth and starving in a garret.
I could have left today with a relatively humorous and inoffensive blog post, but why stop there? There’s one thing that’s been on my mind since yesterday. I don’t have it in me for a full political rant, but I have to mention it. Because I’m Mrs Fringe, that’s why. There was a “campaign” on Twitter yesterday: #WeNeedDiverseBooksbecause Part of me thought this was cool, and I suspect we’ll keep seeing that hashtag for a long time. More of me thought WTF? How is it that we need such a campaign, over 50 years after the Freedom Riders rode through the country, President Barak Obama on his second term as president of the United States…and yet we still have to tell the publishing industry we need diverse books that reflect the diverse people buying and reading those books.
The thing is, while tweets are catchy, they don’t really tell a whole story. Kind of like the various colored ribbons representing awareness for different diseases–ribbons are cute, no one feels threatened by them, they might even match your t-shirt–but they’re a far cry from the messy, painful, and complex reality they represent.
I saw some clever tweets with that hashtag. Saw some not as clever tweets, but well intentioned, the right idea. Still felt sad that it was necessary. I know it is, though. I live in a diverse building, in a diverse city. We are a diverse family. But a few years ago, when Nerd Child was applying for high schools, I read an online comment from a parent who lived somewhere else, bemoaning the fact that the private boarding schools are committed to having diverse classes, stating that this isn’t representative of the “real world.” Umm, maybe not this parent’s real world, but mine and many, if not most (once you branch beyond US borders) others.
Yes, both my boys went (one is still going) to private boarding schools, schools that put thought into the diversity of each year’s class, in addition to test scores, recommendations, skills/talents and after school activities. Both on scholarship. (And don’t kid yourselves, there many more bright and accomplished disadvantaged kids, of color and not, who are qualified that the admissions committees think they’d like to spend 4 years with, and then have representing their schools as alumni. There’s no golden path) But you know what’s beautiful? When I see my boys’ friends, and see how these things do make a difference and carry through. Both have friends from different cultures, different races, different countries. Not just school friends, but friends kept beyond the boundaries of a school day or year.
Still, this trending twitter campaign feels a bit preaching-to-the-choir, no? I have to think the publishing industry includes some of the most culturally conscious people in our society. I mean, books! Reading! Classics! Freedom of Speech and down with censorship! Maybe the marketing/purchasing end of the publishing industry will pay attention to the twitter feed, maybe not. Maybe they’ll take it to mean they should add a title or two to the “multicultural” lists. You know, that small, separate section of the bookstore, stuffed between romance and erotica.
Years ago, when I was looking at kindergartens for Man Child, I went on a tour with two friends, both looking for spots for their own children. We left the school, and one parent said, “I liked it, very diverse.” The other said, “You thought so? I didn’t think it was diverse at all.” Why the different perception? Because to one parent, diverse = many children of color. To the other, diverse = many white children. My way of illustrating that it’s all perception. So point of view in the books we read should represent these different perceptions, if we are going to do more than pay lip service to diversity.
I saw a tweet from a publishing professional that reminded me why we still need this type of campaign. Nothing terrible, definitely not racist, sexist, or homophobic. But it was the equivalent of #weneeddiversebooksbecause some kids want to wear boots instead of sneakers. Umm, huh? Individuality is absolutely important, I’m a huge supporter who rants often about kids being raised and expected to be sheep instead of critical thinkers. But this particular campaign is about diversity. About having characters that all readers can recognize and identify with, not just a default of middle class white girls battling dragons and making the world safe for democracy in Young Adult books, and the stifled white man in suburbia, or cute and earnest young white women figuring out how to get the guy, get that promotion and a good deal on those pumps they just had to have. Diversity of race, culture, religion, gender, socioeconomic class, politics, and sexuality.
I agree, we do need books that recognize and reflect the diversity of our world, our communities. Real diversity, not just the token black/latino/male/lgbtq and not just “issue” books where that difference is the focus of the book, and not taking books that do reflect diversity and sticking them in the corner, on their own shelf, where only those specifically looking for those books will find them.
John L. LeFlore and Freedom Riders (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Maybe not me, but my writing. I think. Hell, maybe it is me.
Broccoli rabe, kalamata olives, vinegar, hot peppers, capers, just about any type of cheese–the stinkier the better. I’ve never tasted anchovies. When I was younger, no one I knew ate them, and by the time I realized they were probably a food I’d enjoy, I was long a vegetarian.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m a “foodie,” there are plenty of basic, simple comfort foods that make my list. Oatmeal with tons of salt and butter, cheetos, pb&j. Yes, peanut butter–the real kind–no additives. I don’t know about your house, but in my house we go through gallons of it. Nothing says comfort like a sammich. Mrs Fringe ❤ bread. But if I had to choose my two favorite sandwiches, one would be a lightly toasted extra sharp Irish white cheddar with sour pickle slices on sourdough, and the other would be chèvre, kalamata olives, fresh dill and sliced cucumbers on baguette.
Like anything else, these foods are only good if they’re fresh and prepared well. Same with writing, words and stories.
I enjoy strong flavors, strong opinions, strong words. Things that make my tongue and my brain tingle. Not everyone agrees, not on their plates and not on their book shelves.
Not everyone likes the same books I do, the same authors. Not everyone *gasp* enjoys my stories. But those that do, really do. Kind of like those that have a taste for broccoli rabe. It doesn’t mean it’s a “flavor” that’s inherently bad or good, individual tastes vary. It occurs to me as I type, this might be seen as a cryptic message about rejections. Nope. Still waiting, haven’t heard yay or nay on the fulls that are out. Just flagellating myself while I wait. Umm, I mean, thinking. Just thinking.
It’s Friday, Friday Night Madness tonight. Fatigue is coming over, we’ll have dinner, one beer each, and laugh. Art Child will show him her latest sketches. We’ll cluck and tear up and sniffle a bit as I give him the update on Big Senile Dog (kidneys–I’m waiting on more test results), and he’ll fill me in on the rapidly declining health of his Big Senile Dog, and then I’ll read him the next couple of chapters in Astonishing–it’s become our irregular routine.
You’re welcome to join us. I’m thinking basic pasta tonight. I make a mean puttanesca sauce–no anchovies. If you don’t like it, I can order a pizza. If you don’t like pizza, well. Maybe Art Child will share her Easter chocolate.
I try not to blog about the kiddos too much on Mrs Fringe for two reasons. One, this is my spot to be me–all of me, not just mamaing, but certainly being a mom is a big part of me. Two, their privacy. This week is my girl’s birthday, though. And it’s a big one. So we took a trip downtown and went to the art store. A new one for us, haven’t explored it before. Flower Child was given all the time she wanted to look at each pencil, eraser, and every other thing that I don’t know what they’re called or how they’re used, but she does. And she saw the manikins. I know they’re useful, but all these little things add up in price. She saw this hand, missing one finger, and asked me if I thought they’d give it to us for fewer dollars because it had fewer fingers. I told her to ask the manager. She did, and he did. Thank you!
Of course, she has a long list of things she would love for her birthday. But…budget. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t summon a unicorn. We do the best we can. One of the things on her list was a name change. She wants to be called Art Child here in Fringeland, instead of Flower Child. I can do this, and I think I should. Here’s a drawing she’s been working on for the past week.
I love this. Not quite finished, but I say this definitely = a name change, don’t you?
I continue to be blown away by her developing talent. She pours her dreams onto the sketch pad, uses her charcoals to smudge them into something visible, something tangible, something I can feel.
I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot these days. How, as someone who writes, a wannabe, I take bits and pieces of what I see, hear, and feel. I inhale them, taste them, smoosh them together, let them harden, and then tap them with the keys on my laptop until they crack and the cracks become stories. Written dreams that turn into personal dreams of connecting with readers, publication. At this point in my life, dreaming isn’t enough. A head in the clouds doesn’t protect you from the potholes under your feet. Work needs to be done, mamaing needs to happen, life has to be lived.
When we left the art supply store we walked down 23rd St. I looked at the old YMCA and wondered what happened to the dreams of the young men who stayed there years ago, before it became a trendy Crunch gym.
Yup, the one that inspired the song.
But for now, I want Art Child to dream. I will watch out for the cracks in the sidewalk.
Friday night I was on the couch watching Bill Maher–nothing unusual, I’m always watching him at that time, though I confess I often fall asleep before the end, and watch the rest in reruns later in the week. Hey the weeks are long, and it’s my night to have a beer, I get sleepy. In any case the interview was with two of the members of Pussy Riot, that kept me awake. Brave women.
Then it was on to the panel discussion, and something something happy/happiness, and Ana Marie Cox (political columnist, commentator, and founding editor of the blog Wonkette) said no, she wants fulfillment, not happiness. Maher said he wants to be happy, not just fulfilled. I’m not sure I heard much else past that, I’ve been thinking about it ever since. With the most cursory of research, using my buddy Google, I found this is not a new idea. It seems like the current definitions involve fulfillment being more of a long term state of being, satisfaction, and happiness being short term, connected to a finite thing, experience, or emotion.
Makes sense to me. We all know the studies, hear the platitudes, no one thing or person will make us happy. As in permanent state of being happy. I believe this. On the flip side, I believe one thing (or lack thereof) or person can result in sustained unhappiness. Unemployment, hunger, poverty, homelessness, a miserable marriage, these things can create long term unhappiness until and unless they change.
Tears of a Clown (Photo credit: daybeezho)
The thing is, I also don’t think any of these achievements, relationships, resources, or experiences can provide permanent fulfillment. We have to continue reaching out, working, experiencing, connecting. When my children were young, I felt fulfilled. There were still things I wanted, experiences I wanted and thought were coming, but overall, I was satisfied with life at that time. Time passes, children grow, life happens, and I’m not so satisfied with where I am now, but I have no desire to go backwards, nor do I wish things had stayed the way they were. The sometimes silly chaos of babies and nursing and giggles and every moment a discovery and but why and pleasefortheloveofGodgotosleep is not a state I’d want to live in forever.
Yeah, I’m in pursuit. Of fulfillment, happiness, rainbows, I don’t know. But I’m in pursuit. Are you?
Mrs Fringe and Husband were informed a 3 bedroom has opened up in the building. We’re going for it. Again. Sounds good, right?
It may or may not come through. We’ve been this close before a couple of times, and life happened. There’s a little part of me that’s crying. If it really comes through, and we take the apartment, it will cost us money, a lot of work, and acceptance that I’m not leaving New York anytime soon.
As I’m typing this, my little email notification popped up, there’s a new listing in Oahu! Yeah, yeah, I can and do dream. Why would I take this apartment if I know it takes me further away from leaving the city? Because for whatever life hasn’t taught me, I’ve learned a few lessons well. One of them is I don’t know what next year, next month, or even tomorrow will bring. So if there’s an opportunity in front of me now, I need to take it. Get it while you can and all that. And hey, a 3 BR apartment in Manhattan that’s practically affordable–not to be taken lightly. Besides, I made my buddy Mrs Smitholini promise about a million times that when I die, she’ll take my ashes to Hawaii. So eventually, in some form or another, I’ll get there.
I saw a neighbor earlier, she asked me if Big Senile Dog was still alive because she hasn’t heard him. He is, but the truth is when I woke up this morning I thought he wasn’t. As I’ve said before, he always wakes me up, cries until I get out of bed and go to the bathroom, and then he goes back to bed as soon as I start making my coffee. This morning he cried, but then stopped. All was quiet when I was in the bathroom so I went to check on him, and he was all curled up, not snoring, on his doggie-pedic bed. Still alive, but slowing down a little more each day.
Looks like an impossibility, no? I stood on the terrace drinking my cafè con leche, camera in hand and the blue and gray and pink and white of the sky made me feel inside out, upside down. I could have been looking into an ocean as easily as up to the sky, if it weren’t for the water towers and smokestacks of neighboring buildings to orient me.
This morning’s sunrise was a surprisingly accurate reflection of how I feel as I’m reading The Woman Upstairs, by Claire Messud. So perfectly simple, natural, it’s a deeply complex piece written with such honesty it makes my heart stop every few pages. The words and phrasing aren’t pretty but they’re beautiful (if that makes sense to anyone other than me). Her main character is pure in her anger– no coyness, no stereotypical qualifiers, I’m not reading into it, she tells us exactly how angry she is and how she sublimates that anger in order to function–much the way I know those deep pinks above, stunning as they are, represent a big storm on its way later. I took the photos so I can look at this sunrise again tomorrow or next month or next year, but they won’t give the same wow they did when I stood there this morning.
There are many writers I admire, for craft, plotting, characterization, descriptions, but. There aren’t many writers who have made me feel like I’m holding my breath, chest and head hurting but I’m afraid to exhale, afraid to keep turning the pages because then it gets me closer to the end. I don’t want it to be over, and I also don’t want to find out if it was wrapped up in a neat and tidy package where everyone gets to live happily ever after because sales-marketing-feel good-life is a cabaret.
*this, by the way, is why I don’t write book reviews on the blog. Not too many people looking to buy a novel want to know how a book made me feel, but the feelings are what’s important and memorable to me.
Some novels I read and know no matter how much I enjoy them, they aren’t my type of story to write. Thrillers, horror, so fun! My imagination doesn’t go in those directions. Some novels I read and think yes, I should be querying and pursuing publication, my work is competitive. This is a whole other category.
This is the type of book I will remember the name of, will recommend to friends and acquaintances for the next ten years. I’m guessing there are a lot of people who won’t like it. Anger, especially women’s anger, tends to make people uncomfortable. It’s also the type of novel that makes me wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. A strange feeling, hard to state clearly because it’s inspiring at the same time. There’s a little back room in my brain where I’ve been drafting a character for another story, and he’s starting to knock, wanting to move forward. As much as I’m loving The Woman Upstairs, feel it was money well spent, it also makes me want to stomp my feet and shake my fists because this is what writing can be, but my writing is not. Cliche as it may be, the word that keeps coming to mind is heartbreaker.
Must mean it’s time to get the Led out before I get back to reading and before the rain comes.
mrsfringe 