So F***ing Good
I'm going to switch gears a little. No running. No moving. No brain chemistry. No straight women (Even though I had a phenomenally graphic dream this week. And no, I haven't been able to look her in the eye since...but I digress). I'm going to discuss reading. Boring, right? I can't say I disagree. I've made friends with reading, but I can't say I love it. I'm a writer - I HAVE to read. Plus, I dislike TV and seldom have the time or attention span for a movie. I despise video games and I have cats so I can't do jigsaw puzzles. What else is there to pass the time? Laundry. Yes. I do a lot of laundry. More often than not, though, I spend my free-chill out time reading.
I was given a fantastically awesome Kindle for my birthday (an Oasis) and I have a library card that allows me to borrow e-books from an e-library for free. Which means that reading is free. Cable will cost you. Laundry will cost you. Surfing Amazon to stave off boredom will cost you. Reading, though, costs nothing. Most of the time. Unless I break down and buy a book. Which I did two days ago.
The e-library didn't have a copy of the book I wanted and I got it in my head that I really, really needed to read right now. Not next month or next year when I could find a free copy. It's rare for the stars to align like that and on pay day no less. Amazon had it for $9.99. Which seems exorbitant for air and words, but I'm a writer and I do enjoy the royalty checks I get from sales of my e-books so I clicked and bought it. Mere moments later after opening my Kindle, it was in my library. It's really too easy these days, reading.
Disobedience by Naomi Alderman. That's the book. There's movie also, which I was able to get for free at the library yesterday, but because my most recent experience with a movie based on a book (Possession) was so substandard, I resolved to read the book first. The last thing I wanted was for a movie to ruin a book I felt I needed to read.
Yeah, there's that word again. Needed. Fuck, seriously. I don't need much in my life. At all. Certainly not donuts or pizza or ice cream or straight women or books. Or books. I know I occasionally convince myself that I need ice cream with a straight woman or pizza after having a donut for breakfast, but that's really just 'want' masquerading as something far grander. So, no...I probably don't need to read Disobedience or spend $10 for the privilege, though it fucking feels like I do.
Thus far all it's done is make me rue the day I started reading it. Because why? It's that bad? No, not even close. Because it's that good. I'm 64% of the way through (Thanks, Kindle for the up-to-the-page calculation) and I procrastinated nearly everything yesterday afternoon and evening (except laundry) and again this morning to spend time reading. I'm writing now because I forced myself to take a break (My Kindle is staring me down from its place right next to my computer begging me to open it and read) and because I need to confess something.
I'm a terrible writer.
I usually sequester myself with what I like to call "casual fiction" - light murder mysteries, the occasional historical romance, good substance-less stories. No offense to some of my favorite casual fiction writers, but the writing is often so-so and the story arcs mind-numbingly simple. I whiz through them at a decent clip and move onto the next. There's no languishing, no underling, no re-reading of phrases, no blogs about them. And, most importantly, they make me feel like a decent writer.
The book I made myself finish before I would allow myself to start Disobedience (the title of which I cannot recall, nor the author's name) made The Match (My novel, available on Amazon and my website staceeannharris.com) seem like the next great American novel. The story line was flawed, characters came and went mysteriously, the dialogue was stilted and unrealistic, and the ending anti-climactic shit. I closed the book for the final time (figuratively speaking, of course) and felt deliciously self-important. My books were WAY better than that steaming pile of words and air. And it was a Amazon First Read. That I thankfully got for free.
Then I started Disobedience. I hadn't even finished the first page when I realized it. This wasn't casual fiction (which is probably why I needed to read it, let's be honest). This was fucking good. So fucking good that I immediately felt sub-standard. I have never, ever, ever put words together as eloquently and meaningfully nor have a formulated a story arc as fascinatingly curved as it is linear. It just got worse from there for me. The book actually got funny. In the places it needed to be funny. So funny that I actually laughed out loud. Then I fucking underlined a sentence. Then an entire fucking paragraph. Then I teared up a little. Not because I was fucking underling, but because the story fucking made me. It fucking made me.
I don't need an editor or a critic or a reviewer to tell me I suck. I just need fucking Disobedience. And Possession. I'm seldom touched by the writing, by the words. Casual fiction isn't about words; it's about story. And it's where I'm safe. It's where I feel decently competent and confident about my future as a writer. But see...the thing is.........I aspire. I have characters waiting for me to write them, characters who need me to aspire. They deserve more than casual fiction. They deserve fervent, expressive, and stirring. They deserve Naomi Alderman or A.S. Byatt, not Stacee Ann Harris. It's as if my characters thrust Disobedience in my hands (or downloaded it to my Kindle) and shouted, "This! You need to write like this! We need words like this, a story like this!" But fuck... I just don't know if it's in me...
Meanwhile, I'm going to finish Disobedience and watch the what I hope isn't a shitty movie. And try - really try - to aspire. And work. And be good enough. "One measure of talent is worth nine measures of work." Where did I get that little tidbit of wisdom? Disobedience. But it was before I gave in and started underlining so I don't have a page to reference [Insert eye roll emoji here].
Yes, need is probably correct. I fucking need something so fucking good so that I dig deeper to find something more than fucking mediocre within me. Because I cannot settle for anything less than so fucking good. My characters deserve it. Their story deserves it.
I was given a fantastically awesome Kindle for my birthday (an Oasis) and I have a library card that allows me to borrow e-books from an e-library for free. Which means that reading is free. Cable will cost you. Laundry will cost you. Surfing Amazon to stave off boredom will cost you. Reading, though, costs nothing. Most of the time. Unless I break down and buy a book. Which I did two days ago.
The e-library didn't have a copy of the book I wanted and I got it in my head that I really, really needed to read right now. Not next month or next year when I could find a free copy. It's rare for the stars to align like that and on pay day no less. Amazon had it for $9.99. Which seems exorbitant for air and words, but I'm a writer and I do enjoy the royalty checks I get from sales of my e-books so I clicked and bought it. Mere moments later after opening my Kindle, it was in my library. It's really too easy these days, reading.
Disobedience by Naomi Alderman. That's the book. There's movie also, which I was able to get for free at the library yesterday, but because my most recent experience with a movie based on a book (Possession) was so substandard, I resolved to read the book first. The last thing I wanted was for a movie to ruin a book I felt I needed to read.
Yeah, there's that word again. Needed. Fuck, seriously. I don't need much in my life. At all. Certainly not donuts or pizza or ice cream or straight women or books. Or books. I know I occasionally convince myself that I need ice cream with a straight woman or pizza after having a donut for breakfast, but that's really just 'want' masquerading as something far grander. So, no...I probably don't need to read Disobedience or spend $10 for the privilege, though it fucking feels like I do.
Thus far all it's done is make me rue the day I started reading it. Because why? It's that bad? No, not even close. Because it's that good. I'm 64% of the way through (Thanks, Kindle for the up-to-the-page calculation) and I procrastinated nearly everything yesterday afternoon and evening (except laundry) and again this morning to spend time reading. I'm writing now because I forced myself to take a break (My Kindle is staring me down from its place right next to my computer begging me to open it and read) and because I need to confess something.
I'm a terrible writer.
I usually sequester myself with what I like to call "casual fiction" - light murder mysteries, the occasional historical romance, good substance-less stories. No offense to some of my favorite casual fiction writers, but the writing is often so-so and the story arcs mind-numbingly simple. I whiz through them at a decent clip and move onto the next. There's no languishing, no underling, no re-reading of phrases, no blogs about them. And, most importantly, they make me feel like a decent writer.
The book I made myself finish before I would allow myself to start Disobedience (the title of which I cannot recall, nor the author's name) made The Match (My novel, available on Amazon and my website staceeannharris.com) seem like the next great American novel. The story line was flawed, characters came and went mysteriously, the dialogue was stilted and unrealistic, and the ending anti-climactic shit. I closed the book for the final time (figuratively speaking, of course) and felt deliciously self-important. My books were WAY better than that steaming pile of words and air. And it was a Amazon First Read. That I thankfully got for free.
Then I started Disobedience. I hadn't even finished the first page when I realized it. This wasn't casual fiction (which is probably why I needed to read it, let's be honest). This was fucking good. So fucking good that I immediately felt sub-standard. I have never, ever, ever put words together as eloquently and meaningfully nor have a formulated a story arc as fascinatingly curved as it is linear. It just got worse from there for me. The book actually got funny. In the places it needed to be funny. So funny that I actually laughed out loud. Then I fucking underlined a sentence. Then an entire fucking paragraph. Then I teared up a little. Not because I was fucking underling, but because the story fucking made me. It fucking made me.
I don't need an editor or a critic or a reviewer to tell me I suck. I just need fucking Disobedience. And Possession. I'm seldom touched by the writing, by the words. Casual fiction isn't about words; it's about story. And it's where I'm safe. It's where I feel decently competent and confident about my future as a writer. But see...the thing is.........I aspire. I have characters waiting for me to write them, characters who need me to aspire. They deserve more than casual fiction. They deserve fervent, expressive, and stirring. They deserve Naomi Alderman or A.S. Byatt, not Stacee Ann Harris. It's as if my characters thrust Disobedience in my hands (or downloaded it to my Kindle) and shouted, "This! You need to write like this! We need words like this, a story like this!" But fuck... I just don't know if it's in me...
Meanwhile, I'm going to finish Disobedience and watch the what I hope isn't a shitty movie. And try - really try - to aspire. And work. And be good enough. "One measure of talent is worth nine measures of work." Where did I get that little tidbit of wisdom? Disobedience. But it was before I gave in and started underlining so I don't have a page to reference [Insert eye roll emoji here].
Yes, need is probably correct. I fucking need something so fucking good so that I dig deeper to find something more than fucking mediocre within me. Because I cannot settle for anything less than so fucking good. My characters deserve it. Their story deserves it.
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