Moby Dick or Meme

I went to my local Mail Box Etc. store on Friday when I realized my book liquidation project was missing a very important element.......shipping boxes........Since I visit that store weekly anyway, no one asked any questions and they only marginally raised their eyebrows when I carted off 20 priority mail boxes.

(Mail tip of the day, those boxes are free, any size, and you can take as many as you can carry: MUCH better then buying boxes and then paying for shipping on top of that cost)

When I returned on Saturday, with two shopping bags full of boxes to send, Lisa, one of the workers who knows me by name, started laughing quite loudly as I started dropping box after box on her counter. I had to explain my liquidation motives and when we were done, I couldn't tell if she thought I was crazy or just well, strange :o)

I am impressed with our mail system, emails came in yesterday saying they got their package already! So much for the snail mail nickname I always attach to the United Postal Service......now.....if they would just serve up some decent stamps I'd be thrilled~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My friend Chris, over at  (Chris)Inane thoughts and insane ramblings  proposed a question to me and several other people, and I thought I would answer it here in my time twisting journal. 
In his words..........."I have to wonder if the phenomenon of blogging is diluting the available pool of literary talent. Is blogging robbing us of the next great author?

Twenty years ago, if someone wanted to write, they wrote. Whether on stone tablet, paper & pen, typewriter, or word processor, they wrote. If a person had talent and desire (or sometimes just desire), he/she could attempt to have his writings published to reach an audience. Otherwise, those writings remained personal and mostly unseen (except for little brothers digging through Sis’ diary).

With the advent of blogging, any fool can hop on the information highway and distribute their writing to an immediate audience. If Melville had access to blogging, would he have written Moby Dick or would he have done a meme about “What Type of Whale Are You?” If Cather was distracted by blogging, perhaps instead of writing O! Pioneers, she would have written 101 things that she has done.

I am not saying that blogging is bad. I believe it serves a great purpose. I just think that some great potential authors might never write that classic novel that is within them, because they are content to write in small doses on a blog."

       My answer to your initial question. Yes, and No.

There was a time when I devoted a lot of time to both my blog and other peoples blogs. I can't do that anymore............

The Good: For me, writing in my blog is an outlet in random writing, and a nice writing social atmosphere I really enjoy. I keep it random enough, without purpose and without expectation, so I could come here and type anything I felt like. I love the feedback, the encouragement and the opinions of others. Any potential writer could benefit from this type of forum.

The Bad: It takes a lot of time. If your not careful it can take hours each day to keep up with a true commitment to online journals. Writing your own entries. Visiting other people's journals, leaving comments, responding to emails etc.....There was a time I was overloaded, over committed and literately strung out trying to keep up. It left barely enough room and time to focus on my own writing. During this stage of my online journal experience, writing a book was nearly impossible. This is where the potential Author gets into trouble.

The Ugly: With over 100 journals on alerts, my email box was never ending cycle piling up. I was averaging 30 plus comments per entry, and in that technorati link thingy, my journal was linked on over 130 other peoples blogs that I tried to keep up with........ I had to stop, step back, and give myself a personal opt out card.

I had to make a choice. Write for myself and do the best I could at randomly visiting other peoples blogs, or put aside my 'writing work' to commit fully to keeping up in the blog world. I would like to think that wasn't a selfish choice, but a logical, self preservation choice. If a would be Author fell into this type of self imposed obligation, visions of a book, publication and "The End" fall quickly to the wayside.

I know it doesn't seem very neighborly to not visit everyone's blogs, even weekly, especially the gracious people who take the time to visit my blog and give me the gift of feedback. It doesn't sit well with me and my desire to reciprocate and show appreciation nags at the back of my mind to this day, but I couldn't/can't find another solution. The sad effect of my choice, I seemed to have lost many an online friend over it...

I think the main thing I wish, or hope for, is that not a single person takes it personally that I don't visit journals regularly. It certainly isn't a personal thing, because I do enjoy reading other peoples words, worlds, activities and journals. I do the best that I personally can, and right now, my focus needs to be on my 'work' writing.

I would like to think Melville would have made the same choice~~

The Shelter Is Liquidating

One.
Two.

I wish I was savvy enough to put music on my journal.
This cat is not in the cradle of technology.

I've been feeling a wee touch of remorse about my last entry. Possibilities of Janet F*i*h (the symbol * is to prevent more possible Google matches) doing the Google thing and (gulp) coming across my irrational rant doesn't sit well.

Sorry Janet. You done good. You finished a book. You wrote pretty, individual sentences. I'm properly impressed. I just wasn't in enough of a deep dark hole of despair to enjoy the story. Maybe next time........I haven't given up, I promise.

I did enjoy both of my sweet little Young Adult books by Stephanie Meyer. Twilight and New Moon. I enjoyed her writing, and I actually had FUN reading her story. No wonder the teenie boppers love her books! That hasn't happened for me in a longgg assss time. A FUN read.

Stephanie Meyers books were a bit like (except innocent enough for teens) picking up a steamy cheap romance novel where you don't need to think.  You don't need to care that the author wrote, "her nipples became erect like a thumb tack" you just read it (ok I admit, I might laugh out loud at times, in the most unlikely places) without expectation. We readers just go with the flow of destiny and questionable writing. In the end, it's all good...............bodice ripping, soul searing love and all. It was FUN, type of reading.

Which brings me to something else I was thinking about.
I read a lot. I know, bit old whopper of a surprise. The money invested per year is enough to float a small condo in another country. It's a lot, lotta, lotsa books~~

So, what happens to those used up books.....not a damn thing really. Donated. Thrown away. Stacked up to collect dust. Given away to anyone I think might give them a home. I can't handle clutter, or having to much of anything, so for the most part, the books once done, are tossed to the winds. It is very, VERY rare, I allow a book to become part of my permanent library. It has to be amazing. Brilliant enough that I'll read it again and again.

Hence, my library is smalland precious to me. Despite the downfall of Janet F*n*H last book, after careful consideration, I'm letting White Oleander stay in it's permanent place. But, I have probably 10 books (at the moment) hanging around my house, and always more getting in line, that warrant reading, and they need homes.

Is anyone in this blogsphere interested in receiving random books via mail?

From Moi?

I understand I did a very bad job trying to rid myself of the last book, but I can do better. I have the potential. I have the already read, needing good homes, books, all types. I have the $$ needed to pay postage. I just need willing receivers of previously used books.

No sub-clauses
No fine print
No expectations
No obligations

The cost of business? An address. Which I understand in itself is kind of scary considering this is the Internet and I could really be a big hairy stalker with crazy tendencies. That picture on the left could be a decoy, and in truth I could be a long lost cousin of Ted Bundy, and there's no way to prove otherwise. But if you think I'm a psycho, please make me bald, I've always wanted to try a bald theme.Ohhh and lots of tattoos. Big Black ones, like the arm band type. I've always secretly wanted one of those!

I do have a few peoples addresses from this blogsphere, but I can't give them as references because, well, I'm ultra confidential and wouldn't break that trust. Except, I should admit here, that once I do have an address, I tend to send random 'hi, hope your having a good day' notes in the mail once in a while. It's another one of my thangs. No reciprocation ever needed, nor expected.

Anyway, I think thats the gist of it. Simply put. Books I've already read need good homes and I don't like being the shelter house. If your willing, to receive random, every once in a while snail mails, I'm offering~~

(Cue Jaws theme song) You'd have to just trust me.....................

Email Works. 

Paint It B.S.

On Thursday evening, I officially lost my temper in front of my daughters.
The three of us had curled up on my big old bed for some 'read in' time. Each of us were snuggled under my comforter, all holding our current novels in hot reading hands. It was silent except for the few times I reminded Kaitlyn to stop wiggling so much.

Shelby was reading The Butterfly House, by Marcia Preston.
Kaitlyn was firmly engrossed in Eragon, by Christopher Paolini
And I was reading a book I had waited six long years for-Paint it Black by Janet Finch.

Six years is a long time to wait out one Author in my humble opinion (thank the Book Gods J. K.  Rowling does better turn around time then that) , but I adored, loved and cherished her book White Oleander, so I surmised if the woman needed ten years, I could refrain from picketing her home and wait it out with her. They even threw in a movie during that time to abate me, so I was dealing with it.

I got the book, Paint it Black, for Christmas. As far as I was concerned, Christmas was over the moment I opened my new book and if I had a choice in the matter I would have locked myself in a room and got down to business right away. I refrained. But the next day, I got to it, or tried anyway. Painful comes to mind. Slow comes to mind. Metaphor nightmares of the eucalyptus nature bubble to the surface. Offensive blahs float within my opinion. Depressing with no signs of life after 200 pages......etc etc etc.....

Every single boring/depressing/over written page sent me into a tailspin of monumental disappointment. From Christmas until this last Thursday night I labored, I forced, I encouraged myself to continue in the pursuit it would suddenly morph into the Janet Finch writing I once loved. Hell, I would have settled for just a decent story to entertain me.

It didn't. I threw a tantrum. 

Although it would make me sound like a lunatic I would like to embellish and say: I fell to the floor on my knees, clutching the sinfully bad book to my chest. Tears were streaming down my face, and I raised one hand to the Gods of Books yelling "Whyyyyyyyy, why have you forsaken me Author?? Whyyy??" 

Honestly though, I threw Paint it Black across my room and it smacked the wall. My daughters witnessed, for the first time ever, me throwing something in anger. They looked up instantly from the fun little worlds they were participating in and stared at me in awe.

Kaitlyn implied a million questions in one word, "Mom?"
I folded my arms across my chest in a pissed off stance, "Realllyyy reallyyy bad book."

They both nodded in what appeared to be mutual understanding.

Shelby, always the compassionate one, touched my arm and said, "You can read along with me Mom."

Which I did, all the while trying not to glance at the offending book laying dead on the floor. Thoughts of torching it in the fireplace danced through my mind. Ripping it to shreds and sending it to Janet Finch came across my mind. Flinging it out in the snow to freeze to death sounded appealing. I made it to page 206 out of 387 and I won't even bother reading the last chapter..............

Hands down, the biggest book disappointment I have ever experienced.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Twilight Side Of The Matter.

On Friday, the girls packed up for the first real weekend with their Father in two months. When they were walking out the door, Shelby hugged me and said, "Mom, I left you something on my bed. Trust me."

On her bed was a note and a book. The note said, -Mom, trust me, it's a really good book, read it while we are gone, you won't be able to put it down, Love Shelby. -

The Book-Twilight by Stephanie Meyer.
Young Adult/vampire/love story
398 pages. Finished early Saturday morning. (no sleep)

Simple, sweet, fluid writing with a good dose of suspense and fun. I adored it. The last sentence had me thirsting like one of the vampires for more more more. I called Shelby and first praised her, thanked her and then begged for the second book. I needed to keep reading and I LOVED knowing there was a second book.

To my personal horror she informed me one of her friends had the second book, New Moon. The good news was I didn't have to wait six years for a follow up, the additional good news -I didn't wait for the friend. I drove like a psycho woman to Hastings and claimed my own copy. I'm at page 138 in this second book and I'm still enjoying the heck out of the story and the writing! Shelby has also informed me the third book comes out in Aug. I can embrace that~~

Eat your heart out Janet Finch.

Does anyone want my Paint it Black, Janet Finch book???
Anyone?? Hardcover, free, I'll even pay postage.
Say the word and it's YOURS for your personal reading torture.

*****After two comments and one email, I've realized I've gone about getting rid of that book all wrong. Let me try this.

Unforgettable book up for grabs: Travel into the world of bad 80's hairstyles and clothing. Get a taste of the vile under belly of LA's seediest shitholes the 1980s produced. Enjoy the emotional ride of one mans suicide as it plays out between one coke sniffing, pot smoking, pill popping, alcoholic girlfriend and his snobby, over done, piano playing freak of a Mother. Lots of passing out, and puking for your reading enjoyment, enhanced by eucalyptus trees every 3 or 4 pages. It's all mixed just right to highlight the most memorable, forgettable moments in book history.........

You'll love to hate it.

Trust me.

Writer Thoughts

Between reading the esteemed Crapometer over at Miss Snark, the literary agent homestead and reading several correspondence emails from a friend facing a (poetry) critique firing squad, I feel inclined to toss forth my thoughts about a few items here.

Although it hurt my compassionate side, the crapometer was a lesson in quantity vs. quality vs. potential vs. crap vs. the ultimate fish pond competition. A parade of idea's marched across her screen some 682 times from the corridors of other would be writers.

Now, I fish, and here's a fact. If too many fish attempt to swim in a small body of water, they deplete the oxygen from the water, they devour the nutrients found in the undergrowth and ultimately, only the strong survive such conditions. I've realized, writing a book is very much like trying to jump into an exclusive pond. If far too many 'would be' fishies continue to jump into said pond, it becomes unhealthy and diluted by the very thing we call potential.

I can visualize how the hierarchy, those who control and manage the population (agents, publishers, editors, experts) , must continue, without sleep, without rest, to smack environment eroding fishies right back out of the pond they keep disturbing with potential ambition. I see it as a frustrating and nearly impossible feat of division. Flip away 20 potentials with bad swimming techniques and ambition (writing) and risk flipping away one J.K. Rowling because your blinded by the previous 19 rejections of fin-less swimmers.

I wrote my friend and still believe as such, that unlike painters or other artists, who have a multitude of tools at their disposal to create and build. We, the writers, have but one solitary tool. Words. Words, upon words, upon stacking and arranging, it all rests firmly with words. Every person in this word is gifted the tool of words. No matter the language, no matter the day and age or location, words are at our disposal, our mercy and our imagination. Everyone has the potential, anyone could ignite the ambition. Anyone and everyone has the opportunity to sit down and write.

The question becomes for me, is who is destined to take it beyond the level of personal enjoyment? Where does the fine line between recreation writing and potential writing for the masses evolve? Is it talent? Is it natural writing ability? Is it understanding the language better then others? Is it simply the tenacity to sit and scratch out 100,000 words and immediately start trying acrobatic moves into the exclusive fish pond? What spurs one person to pine for the exclusive pond over say, the person who writes regularly just because they can?

I understand everyone wishes to leave their mark on this world. There are millions of us (myself included) who must write. We write because the urge won't shut the hell up. I can't put masking tape over the loud voice within me and I certainly can't stop the march of constant idea's that materialize in my mind daily. I do what I must, write them all down.

However, I am not exactly educated in the art of writing. I have not taken classes, nor would I be able to quickly identify all verbs, nouns, adjectives, proper sentence structure, grammar, and all the other hoopla that has attached it's tentacles to the form of writing well. I'm not even entirely interested in taking my writing to a technical level that would muster praise from experts in writing format and sentence structure. I have the basics, they work for me. Plain and simple, either the sentence reads like crap or it doesn't.

I concede it is up to the critics and experts to wave their hand of opinion and judgment to keep all us little fishies in line, in the correct ponds. What I continue to hold tenaciously is my personal voice, originality if I may, and I strongly encourage those I correspond with to do the same. Adjustments can be made......however changing an entire tone, an entire sentence, an entire meaning based on a critic......thats a reward vs. loss game. Ultimately, whats more important to a writer? 

Does this make me a dilettante? Perhaps. Does this make me avant-garde? Possible. Does it make me a stubborn soul who will do as she damn well pleases? Likely. Do these designations make one slice of difference to me? Not at this time. I am a solitary fish, basking in her own personal pond, swimming her own natural strokes. I rise to the surface from time to time to watch the other fish playing.

A time will come. I will also be clutching a manuscript between tiny little fins, attempting a head first dive into the exclusive pond. If some big fish smacks me right back into my own pond over grammar, or too many uses of adjectives, I'll listen and I'll adjust if I feel right about it. I learn daily, I study at my own pace and I adjust when I feel the natural tones of my writing has gone off canter.

To my friend who's writing was compared to Bauldelair, I say thats a compliment. Carry on.....study.......write and understand your originality is priceless in my humble opinion. When all else fails, fight and pull a Cummings ~ flip them off~~

Charles Bauldelaire wrote: ( Beauty)
"I hate all movements that disturb my prose,
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.
Before my monumental attitudes,
That breathe a soul into plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods"

I appreciate his thoughts...................