My little hobby
Sometimes I read negative reviews for fun. Negative reviews of stuff I love, negative reviews of stuff I hate, even of stuff I feel ambiguous about. I’ve wondered why I do this, why I take such pleasure in reading people who are enraged, or disappointed, or just haters. And, okay, partially it’s because I’m a troll.
But I think it’s also because I trust negative reviews more. Positive reviews are so common that it makes me distrust love, especially love that uses very broad terms to discuss the book.
I recently saw on a writing acquaintance’s site an announcement of a review blog, with the promise of ‘no negative reviews here!’. Are negative reviews really that bad? I suppose the idea is: negative reviews could hurt sales! And also, hurt feelings!
Regarding the former, negative reviews haven’t seemed to hurt Twilight at all. Word of mouth helps sales, but my impression is that even negative reviews count toward ‘word of mouth’. A hilarious or scathing negative review will probably produce as many new readers as an enthusiastic and positive review, just because enthusiastic and positive reviews feel so much like being advertised to– they’re that common. And because interests and means of enjoyment vary widely, probably as many new readers will become fans (or ‘fans’).
As for the latter, that negative reviews hurt feelings… well, I’m sure it’s true. I’m a writer. Negative feedback makes me sad, when it doesn’t make me laugh at how clueless the reviewer is. Sometimes, very occasionally, negative opinions of somebody I respect about something I love can also make me feel self-doubt. I can’t help but wonder what it says about a review site, though, if it’s worried about hurting writer and reader feelings? Is it a site interested in discussing and discovering books? Or only in providing validation to its readerbase through ego stroking?
I’m being mean, aren’t I? I should say there’s nothing WRONG with providing validation. Really. It’s okay. But it’s not really book reviews if nothing ever earns negative commentary.
Anyhow, I’m thinking I should be mean more often. Review more books I read. Demonstrate that it’s okay to talk about things you don’t like, and that not all books are amazing. And that we can learn about our own writing from having discussions about what doesn’t work in a book. Because that’s the final reason I read negative reviews. I learn a lot.
Some self-shaming
I have a novel to edit. But I haven’t been. It’s been the holidays– that’s an excuse! But the truth is, I’m afraid.
It’s not that I hate editing. I love making a book better! I like to add new scenes and I like to tweak dialog. I don’t like to remove characters although I don’t mind cutting scenes. But my stories are so sparse that usually I don’t need to cut much. At least according to my own judgement…
I think I’m afraid of this story though. I don’t generally think it’s a good idea to talk about problems with a specific story but as long as I’m editing this one I’m probably going to do so as penance.
I’m afraid of this story because I’ve spent so long on it– far longer than I wanted. It’s had two major drafts and I just want it to be done. And I wish I had an editor or agent so I could just focus on writing instead of trying to figure out how to make it publishable. I hate striving for publishabity or even agent-attraction instead of striving for what I consider a good story. I suspect this is why I should avoid critique groups– because I end up spending too long worrying about how to appeal to specific people instead if myself.
But that’s whining, isn’t it?
I really need to focus on making it good according to my own standards. And I need to get over my desire to Just Be Done. One thing I’ve finally Partially internalized this year is the journey Of a thousand miles starts with a single step. I might get over my indecision on how to edit this novel if I would just accept that there may be a lot of work left.
Zeroth Draft
I’ve written a zeroth draft.
I conceived the idea as a very long outline– 50,000 words written in November, intended to convey a story estimated to be 150,000 words. It wasn’t something I’d done before. I do outline, but more broadly, and often the outline becomes very vague at the end.
I write sequentially, you see. Each scene, in the order that I expect they’ll appear in the book. I find that the emotion and details of each scene influences how the next scene works out, and I’m uncomfortable writing a scene without fully understanding what has come before. Too often I’ve had tiny details, especially those of Place or Character change what I expected to occur next. And by the time I’ve reached the end, the lack of the details discovered in the writing practically forces me to be vague.
This time, though, I was going to be explicit. I divided the story up into a number of parts and chapters and scenes. Each part got a single line describing the expected contents, and then as I approached the part, I would fill in single lines for the chapters and scenes, and then write around 300 words per scene. Mostly, I wrote dialog and emotional movement. I am not very good at description, so I gave myself leave to insert that in another draft. The other 2/3rd of the words have to come from somewhere, after all.
I also gave myself leave to suck. Some of the scenes I do not expect to keep. Some secondary character arcs are trash. It was very hard, sometimes, to write on knowing that. Normally, I think about my words and narrative a lot before committing words to paper, in a bad form of perfectionism. But I think it helped a lot to have a set number of words for a scene’s outline. I could, I told myself, fix it later. I had to come back and rewrite it anyhow. It was just an outline.
And the ending was still a challenge, although not for the reason I usually find it hard in outlines. This time, I had the emotional and character details, mostly. What I didn’t have was personal sense of climax that helps me propel my characters through the heights and depths of the final act of the story. I admit it; I especially skimped on the wrap-up scenes after it was over. I think I got what was important down, though.
I think my next step is going to be creating sets and describing them thoroughly. I’m as wretched at infusing my narratives with clear imagery as I am at not obsessing over every sentence before I write it, so this will also be a challenge.
One of the Joys of Writing
At least at this stage of things, one of the joys of writing is being able to construct a story with exactly the right mix of genre elements. It often seems to me that a lot of my favorite stories leave me wishing for a bit more in some area or another. A bit more actual romance. A bit more setting development. A bit more mystery. Whatever.
But in stories I write, I can do as much action as I want, of the style I like. As much romance as I want, in exactly the way I want it. It’s one of the most compelling reasons I have to write!
Flash: Show Me How
He is broken, and tired of being broken.
His most relentless enemy is free and beautiful. When she falls, others help her up again. She does not have to fight for everything. People give her things. Once or twice, he’s been tempted to give her things. Alone of all his enemies, she does not seem to despise him. She looks at him with thoughtful eyes as he fights and runs and curses her.
He is tired of being alone.
He sits on the edge of the building until she finds him. She approaches, just close enough to speak, not nearly close enough to touch. He has a bottle. He pitches it off the edge. She catches it. She would.
“You might hurt somebody,” she says.
“You wouldn’t let that happen.” He leans back against the wall, wonders what it would be like to just fall. Would she catch him, too?
“No,” she agrees. “What are you doing up here?”
He stands, unsteady. “Saying goodbye.”
She arches one lovely eyebrow. He waves expansively at the twilight city. “This city… I loved it once, you know? But it’s got nothing for me. Kicks me like a dog. Nothing. No place, no reason. No point.” He realizs how drunk he is, and tries to pull himself together. He’d hoped she would come, if he waited long enough. And she had. So much easier than breaking into vaults, or hiring himself out to a bastard with a big plan.
“I don’t want to be here anymore.” He shows her the gun in his other hand. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to just jump. Make a big mess. Might hurt someone. Don’t want to inconvenience you.”
He turns and climbs back up the ladder to the rooftop. She drifts up after him. He hates some of the fliers, but she is– but why hurt himself with those thoughts now?
“–,” she says. He flinches. Of course she knows his real name. His file is easy enough to come by, for one of them. “Do you expect me to just watch? I care about more than messes.”
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them again, he gives her his best smile and lifts the gun. She moves, then, as fast as he’d ever seen her. Her hand wraps around his wrist, keeping his hand out, and her body is so close to his. “There are other answers,” she whispers.
Her words twang against his tension and he convulsively tries to yank his hand away from her grip. “Hospitals?” he growls. “Therapy? Group sessions? I’d be better off dead. Save your pity for somebody who wants it.”
A frown flickers across her face. She doesn’t let him go. He wants to pull her to him but he can’t. “What do you want? If you want to kill yourself, you don’t want me as an audience. You must know I won’t let you.”
“I don’t want your pity,” he repeats. I want you. Oh, please, God, I want you. He shies away from her question. “What do you want? Why did you come here? There are so much better ways to spend your energy. Drag me off to the lockup, already. Wash your hands.”
She hesitates. “I’ve… I… ” She stares at him. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” Of course.
His mouth is dry, and he can taste the bitterness of her answer. But he has nothing else to lose, so finally, awkwardly, he asks his question. “Do you think– Am I even worth saving?” Give me a reason to try to become worthy of you. Oh please.
He has seen her smile before, in interviews, on television. Never in person. It is dazzling. “Oh yes. I’ve always thought you had… potential.”
He opens his hand and lets the gun fall to the roof.
Someday.