Sharazade

image courtesy of healingdream

Fellow erotica author and Facebook friend Gregory Allen made a post on his page recently that mentioned the theatrical maxim “Acting is reacting.” Because I’m ever so witty on Facebook, that prompted me to respond, “Does that mean that ‘writing is rewriting’?” (slaps knee again)

It is, though, isn’t it? I mean, it’s lucky that we’re not stone carvers, because inevitably, whatever we write, no matter how inspired or well planned, is going to need some reworking once it’s done.

First, of course, I look a piece over on my own. However, unless something is really bothering me, I notice that I tend to do more editing than revising — that is, I’ll swap out a few words for better choices, I’ll fix a typo or two, I might add some more details or combine some sentences. It’s rare that I’ll make sweeping changes to structure or character or plot.

I wish I could say that’s because those larger elements never need to be changed. But alas, it’s more that I have trouble seeing the changes that need to be made. For those larger elements, then, what I need is an outside reader — someone to read my story and give me a critique.

I’ve published over 20 books, now, of one type or another, and countless journal articles and magazine pieces and blog entries. I’m a good writer. I sell stuff. And yet… and yet… it is still surprisingly hard to offer something up to “other eyes.”

Harder still to get the piece back — with suggestions. Or criticisms (and isn’t any suggestion actually a criticism at some level?). It’s funny, of course, because the entire point of asking someone to critique a piece is to get suggestions on what to change. If I really thought it was absolutely perfect as is, there’d be no need to show it to anyone (except an adoring public with their pocketbooks out). When critiquers respond only with “That was great, I wouldn’t change a thing,” I worry that they’re not being honest, or that they’re simply not astute to find the flaws that must be there.

When I do get the suggestions back, though, I know that, inevitably, I must go through what I’ve come to think of as The Four Stages of Rewriting:

1) Denial. Yes, that’s right — I’ve asked for advice, and now that I have it in hand, I argue against it. My hero is weak? No, he isn’t. My heroine sounds snotty? No, she doesn’t. And my piece is not too long/too short/too pornographic/not sexy enough. If you can’t see its brilliance, then you just didn’t get it. It’s perfectly fine how it is!

This stage never lasts too long, because it so easily bleeds into the next stage, namely:

2) Anger. And just who the hell is he to say that my writing is flat? What’s he published — recently? I read her poem last week; I thought it trite. So where does she get off telling me my plot is overused? I guess some people feel they have to criticize in order to be useful. Harumph!

After I’ve had a good seethe comes the next stage:

3) Grief. I thought it was good. I really did. I thought I was done. I worked so hard on this! I wanted to submit it next week. I spent all that time researching prices of pensions in southern France, and everyone says that scene should be cut entirely. This is too hard. I’m not a good enough writer to make this work.

But finally, thank goodness, I get to

4) Acceptance. OK, it’s not perfect. And if three people say my heroine sounds snotty, then I need to adjust that, because that wasn’t the effect I wanted. No one said it was awful, after all, just that it needed some tweaking. If I cut out the opening paragraph and start with the action, it really is a better story.

I think it’s important to point out that “acceptance” is not the same as “agreeing with every suggestion you get.” It only means that you realize that a reader sees something you didn’t intend. You may want to change it, and then again, you may not. Final choice rests with the author. However, if several readers all offer a similar criticism, you’d be foolish not to listen. I know that’s hard. I just offered a short piece up for critique and two very different readers objected to the same sentence, which had been one that I really liked. Well, it could be a fine sentence, but just not for this piece. I sort of skimmed over the first reader’s objection, then stopped and paused again at the second reader’s objection… I might have to give it another day or two, to get over my denial and grief (it’s only one sentence, I’ll just skip anger altogether!), and then I’ll change it.

I’ve been writing and publishing since 2001, and professionally editing since 2003. I’ve worked with new authors and experienced authors, authors of fiction and authors of non-fiction. I’ve seen those four stages in myself and in my authors over and over again. I don’t know that the four stages ever go away completely. But I do think I get through them faster now, and at least I can see of some of my resistance for what it is — mere resistance, and not the Defense of True Art.

Best advice I could give a new author would be not to respond to an email or discussion while wallowing in stages 1, 2, or 3. Take your time, take a break, take a deep breath, and get over it. Get to stage 4, where you can make reasoned decisions about what to keep and what to change and how to change it.

Authors, I’m interested in hearing your thoughts on dealing with critiques!

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A freelancer has no set schedule. Projects turn up here and there — they’re offered to you, or (if you’re less fortunate) you go looking for them. In my non-fiction writing life, there is more work available than there are hours in a day, so whenever a new project comes up, there are questions to be asked: When does it start? How long will it last? How many hours a week will it take? What does it pay? How difficult is it? At least, those are the questions I’ve always asked. But recently I thought of a new one.

A publisher I’d worked with before called me up. “Are you available in April?” she asked. “I have a project I think would be perfect for you.”

“Is it more fun than porn?” I asked.

A short silence.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I’ve started writing erotica. I’m really enjoying it, and I’d like to write more of it. But of course it takes time…”

This is a woman in her 60’s, very sharp and experienced, a no-nonsense “New York” sort of person. Top of her field. She sounded a bit worried. “Well, we really need someone with X qualifications” [here she rattled off a list that sounded like it had been stripped straight from my resume] “so naturally I thought of you…”

A pause.

“I don’t know. Do you think it sounds ‘fun’ enough for you?”

“Well, possibly… what does it pay?”

“Oh, right. Erotica pays well, does it?”

“Well, you know what they say — the recession-proof businesses all involve liquor or sex,” I said, neatly avoiding the question.

“Can we meet in person next week to discuss it?”

And so we arranged to do so. I’m pretty sure I’ll take the job — it does sound right up my alley, and I’m sure it pays better than writing erotica, at least for me.

Am I the only one who gets tired sometimes of hearing, “Do what you love and the money will follow”? There’s some truth to that, certainly — especially if you love things like tax law, structural engineering, or dentistry more than you love yoga, childcare, teaching, or… writing fiction.

Some fiction writers make money, of course; and those are often the ones we hear about when someone says “writer.” But there are plenty of writers out there, good writers, who can’t make a living out of it, or not much of one. They might work other jobs, or share expenses with a spouse or other type of partner.

I think it’s more accurate to say, “Do what you love, and you’ll wind up loving what you do. Which may or may not pay.” However, that is an important consideration. I am fortunate enough that some of my writing, the non-fiction part, does pay the bills. Once they’re paid, though, I want a bit of fun. Perhaps when I’ve written (and sold) more erotica, it will pay more, to the point where I can devote more time to writing it, and it will spiral slowly up. Or it may not. It may remain an outlet for creativity, for playfulness, for enjoyment–for fun, in other words. And that’s important. If I don’t schedule time for fun, fun is going to get shoved aside.

Therefore, I’m going to take fun into consideration now, with all the other factors, when I consider how to spend my work time.

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I’m visiting virtually this week!

Today my post “The Accidental Brazilian” (by which I do not mean the nationality!) is up at Tracy Ames’ blog, Interracial Erotica. I love the pictures she added! (The first one is mine.) They captured the feeling perfectly…

M post on “Breathing” for Oh, Get a Grip has been posted here. Check out other top erotica writers’ take on the same topic, and other great topics in the archives.

If posts here have been sparse, it’s only because I’ve been traveling and unable to get into my home here much. But I’m back now!

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One nice thing about working overseas on temporary assignments is how easy it is to meet other expats, at least on a superficial level. People who’ve been in the host country longer take you under their wing and invite you out to dinner and parties, take you shopping, and introduce you to people.

I’m currently in the Middle East, and was invited out to dinner a few nights ago by a woman I had met on previous trip. She also invited two Americans here on a short-term assignment. We were coming to the end of our meal, and the following transpired:

Woman: So, I’m having a small party tomorrow night, and you guys are of course invited.

Two Buff Guys: Thanks, we’d love to come.

Woman: And Shar, you’re invited too.

Me: Oh, thank you. I’ll be there.

Woman: Actually… Um…. Shar, we were thinking that maybe you could read a bit from your book, and we could brainstorm some ideas for your next one.

Me: [Total confusion. I write a rather specialized type of non-fiction, and while these were all nice people, they frankly weren’t qualified to help me with ideas.]

Me again: [Penny drops] Um… So… does the entire expat diplomatic community now know that I write smut?

Woman: Oh, no, not at all. I only told these guys so they’d know you’re cool.

Me: [I’m “cool”? Cool!]

Woman: And X knows, of course, and Y, and I think Z… maybe a few other people. But certainly not everybody. So will you do it?

Me: Um…. sure! I’d be happy to!

That was the right answer, as apparently X, Y, and Z had already been invited. We met at the woman’s apartment the following evening. One person brought his Kindle — in fact, he’d already bought my book. Some beers were opened, we chatted a bit… and somehow, I guess because no one was really in charge, the formal reading never really happened. But the brainstorming did.

First, I had a plot question for the group for one partially written story (I’ll spare you the question, but the answer was “a threesome”), and also some setting questions for the woman, because I want to set a story in a country I’ve only visited but she lived in for two years. Was this plausible? How could the characters do that? Would she read the story once I’d drafted it to make sure it sounded realistic? (Yes, she will!)

Then we talked a bit about the country we’re all in now, and what the erotic possibilities could be there. That was the most lively discussion, not surprisingly. I talked about my reluctance to write a story about a Westerner and a local person from, well, any of the Middle Eastern countries I’ve visited “getting it on,” just because the cultural implications are so complex. The others didn’t seem as bothered by the idea. “It’s just fantasy,” as one person put it.

However, the objections are my own personal ones, not something I’m picking up from publishers or readers, and there’s no reason to write something I’m not comfortable writing. For the record, I am not AT ALL opposed to bi-cultural relationships; however, they are (at least, in my opinion) more complex and layered than I care to investigate in a short erotic story. A novel, perhaps. 3000 words, no; not for me. I asked if the idea of one expat meeting another expat (or two travelers meeting) in an exotic locale was still hot, and the answer was a resounding “Yes!”

It was interesting to discuss things like story and setting and characters with people who were not writers. They didn’t give a hoot about “the markets” or what else might already be out there or what was currently popular. What they cared about, too, seemed not to be this sex act or that one. The strongest interest was in the story line gimmick. A tribal kidnapping! And then she’s rescued by a hot security guy! Or… there’s a flood, and their landrover is stuck!  They’re on a rooftop overlooking the old city, and there’s no one around…

It encouraged me because that too is what’s most interesting to me. Of course, it’s erotica; the sex counts. But what I really care about is why these two (or more) people came together (so to speak), and what they’re like. What does having sex accomplish for them? If I know those things, I can fill in the rest. If I don’t know those things, there is no story, and I can’t even get started.

It was just a bit surreal, I have to say, to sit down with a bunch of mostly strangers (and a few barely acquaintances) and talk about writing smut. But what a nice opportunity. If such ever comes up again, I’ll grab it.

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A recent thread on a writer’s list, about being busy and handling all of one’s projects, started by asking, “Do you write one story or book at a time, finish it, and then begin another; or do you have several concurrent projects?”

As is the way with such threads, the responses addressed the question but also various side topics, including multitasking and whether or not such a thing is truly possible. One person who said it wasn’t observed, “You can’t write and do laundry at the same time.”

That remark struck me because my immediate reaction was, “But I do that all the time.” I don’t actually handle many household chores, but laundry is one of them, and it takes some time, especially the folding and sorting and putting away, and it is one of my prime opportunities for writing fiction. When I said so, though, the person was confused. It simply wasn’t possible, she said. If you are picking up a shirt and folding it, you are not holding a pencil and moving it across paper, nor are you typing.

Well, I’m not going to argue with that. But I am going to argue that there is far, far more to “writing” than typing. Now, different people write in different ways, and I certainly can agree that for some people, writing is mostly (I can’t quite say entirely, but I can say mostly) a matter of sitting down at the keyboard and doing it. However, for me, most of my writing is not this stage of transcription.

First, I need an idea. It needn’t be a fully formed idea; it could be a plot line (or a piece of a plot line), it could be a compelling character, it could be an interesting setting, it could be a theme. Staring at a computer screen or a blank sheet of paper does not bring this idea to me. Ideas come when and where they will — but most often when I am doing something completely different. I could be talking to someone, or engaging in sport, or watching a movie, or listening to music, or wandering through a museum, or reading a call for submissions. Ideas are a bit like love, though, in that the harder you chase them, the faster they run; and it’s often best to simply live your life and wait for them to come and find you.

Once I have an idea, that idea must be expanded into a full story that includes a complete (or complete enough, if it’s a short story) plot, with characters, setting, and all that. That too is a mental stage, not a typing stage, and again, I carry out this planning while engaged in other things.

I also need language — each individual sentence. This, for me, is still a mental stage. I arrange words into sentences, and sentences into paragraphs, and I go back and change words and rearrange sentences all in my head. The shower is an excellent place to do this; I also do it while I’m walking, and of course while doing the laundry.

Now, I can’t do two mental things at the same time, or at least, not successfully. I can’t talk on the phone to a friend and revise a paragraph. I can’t be checking my Facebook, or singing a song, or answering email. It’s best if I’m not cooking dinner (best for the dinner, I mean, not for the writing). But a rote physical activity, like laundry, or weeding, I can certainly do while working on a paragraph or a page.

Once I have the story more or less written in my head, at that point I sit down with my laptop and type it out. Now, once it’s written, I still play with it; I’ll still go back and add sections and delete sentences and change words. I might show it to someone and revise it based on his or her comments. But really, the bulk of the work is done. From typing on, it’s more polishing than constructing.

Because I can’t possibly have a story unless I do all of the thinking — there simply wouldn’t be anything to type — I call this thinking “writing.”

Does it matter? I mean, does it matter if I call my thinking “writing”? Yes, I think it does, and here’s why. I don’t think I’m alone in this. Even if other writers do less of the writing in their heads, I’m pretty sure most writers do some planning in their heads.

The point of recognizing this is that you can then consciously plan this time, and you can respect this time.

For example, say you see a call for submissions with a due date a month away. Do you have a month in which you could write? Perhaps not, if you are looking only at typing time. But perhaps you do, if you are aware of how much of the work you can do even when you don’t have typing time.

The other side of that coin is someone who thinks perhaps that having a block of six hours in front of the computer is enough time to finish a certain amount of writing, and then feels frustrated when it isn’t — because the necessary groundwork wasn’t done. Without that idea-gathering, many writers stare at the screen and panic because they assume they must have “writer’s block” when the words don’t come.

I’ve seen writers beat themselves up over “not having done anything all week” because they don’t have a Word file or a printout; and yet, they have been writing, and furthermore, making progress. They don’t give themselves credit for the work because it’s mental.

For me, a turning point in how I view the creative process came when I took on a large editing project for a publisher that involved some significant re-writing. I negotiated an hourly rate for my work, and then the project manager said, “Don’t forget to charge us for the time you spend thinking.” Oh? Wow. Because if she hadn’t said that, no, I would not have billed for that. I would have spent hours on my own, solving problems and moving words and pages around in my head, and then billed for the time I spent sitting at the computer. Once someone offers you money for something, it must be “real work.” That, for me, was the moment when I accepted thinking as “real work,” and began to examine, and accept, the significance of this step in my writing.

Folks of a certain age (and nationality) might remember the snarky comment of US President Lyndon Johnson, who said of Congressman Gerald Ford that he was so dumb he couldn’t fart and chew gum at the same time (this remark made it to the popular press in the milder form of his not being able to walk down the street and chew gum at the same time). Clearly, not everyone can multitask, and some tasks go better together than others. I’m curious, though, about how others write. Do you consider planning a part of “writing”? How do you do your brainstorming and drafting — in your head? on paper? At what point do you move to the computer (or paper)? How well do you know (and respect) your own writing process?

Free image courtesy of graur razvan ionu.

Image: graur razvan ionut / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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