2.27.2011

real and down-home self inflicted emotionally fueled ordinary no-more-life-please single-serving maybe death

I had this weekend the first flutter of feeling for writing again, since the dreaded turn-down of the novel in December. I am in fact longing to work on it again, if only to reassure myself that the kind "no" was just the voice of one reader, not the truth heretofore hidden from my biased eyes. I read about the now-stars of the ya scene, those epics with brutal futuristic reality tv stadium games to the death and celebrity intergalactic hyperdeath, and long post apocalyptic marches of death...my slight spare novel of possible death, real and down-home self inflicted emotionally fueled ordinary no-more-life-please single-serving maybe death must seem terribly underblown and pedestrian. no matter. it's mine, waiting patiently for further ministrations.

2.14.2011

first thanks to all the spammers

who have been my faithful followers and commenters these last long months. love you guys.
second, i am confused by the idea of an audience. or at least, distracted by it.
example: the first agent (nicely) rejected my novel.
do I now spend my microbial amount of writing time tracking down other agents who might like to see it and reject it too?
I will, happily. But when then does any actual writing take place?
Let's review:
did I write it to publish it? no.
did I write it give a voice to the character and to tell her story because it needs to be told? yes.
do I think it's any good? yes.
am I in any position to judge? no.

you can see how the idea of an audience (seeking one) is distracting from the act and intentions of writing. do I spend the little time I have writing or working to get what I have written published? the answer is naturally yes. all of above. take yer chisel and knock out time to do both.