Sorry for not blogging much as of late. It’s for a perfectly sound reason…I’ve been working on some new stories…three in all (and a new version of one, so that would make four)…one after another. What can I say? When it’s time to write, it’s time to write.
It’s been difficult and quite rewarding at the same time. I’m trying some new things…different plots and voices and such. I don’t know if you’ve struggled with this, but for the last two or three years since I switched to fiction full time, I’ve had issues with my plots. Mainly because when I’m writing the story, I get into the characters…I enjoy rummaging through their heads, so to speak. When I’m done however, I’ll look at the story like “ok and…what is this about?” Not a theme or anything like that…but the simple nuts and bolts of a story. This is Jack. Jack wants something. Jack begins his quest to attain it (or the story begins with him in the middle of the pursuit). Jack comes up against certain conflicts in opposition of his journey. Tension at every turn. Climax. Resolution. Does Jack get what he wants?
Reading the works of others is an invaluable exercise for writers. However, for a young writer, still trying to figure out, if nothing else, what stories he or she want to write, what is truly authentic for him or her, reading other people’s work can lead, inadvertently or otherwise, to a bit of confusion. I’m sure a lot of writers find themselves writing like the author they’re currently reading. But it’s doubly confusing when, craft aside, you’re discovering your own voice. Not authorial voice, mind you…something far less esoteric than that. Do I write literary fiction? Genre fiction? Both? Very similar to wanting to be a doctor…and you read things like “well, pediatricians are cool, but surgeons can make a lot of money, but it depends on what surgery you want to do, and even then you might not be good enough to do it, so…I don’t know…be a podiatrist.”
In any event, my goal these days is to enjoy what I write and, as such, I find myself at a peculiar place. I approached fiction thinking I knew what stories I wanted to tell…that I needed to buffer that belief with some hardcore knowledge of craft. So, over a year later, craft in my pockets, I restarted my path down fiction. Only to find out I hated everything I wrote. Everything. Like…no redeeming value whatsoever. Well…let me back up from the hyperbole and put it like this.
The stories that kept my interest the most needed the most rework (still do). The stories that were over the top with verbiage, character (de)construction, layers of description and detailed settings were, while far more polished, boring as hell. Literary couture. Pretty to look at (if that), but your ass will never be caught dead sporting that shit in public. Cardinal sin of fiction? When someone, yourself perhaps, says “tell me about your story” and you can’t. When you know they’re not asking you about the themes…about love will conquer all or money is the root of all evil…but rather, what in the hell is Jack doing in your story. And you realize for 3000 words, Jack sat in a corner. Morose. Drunk perhaps. Depressed perhaps. Most of the story’s conflict occurs within him (which is okay, so long, in my opinion, that there’s equal external conflict as well). Jack isn’t doing jack shit in your story, so you say “its about the struggles of a young tomato farmer who isn’t sure if his family business will bring him happiness. He’s looking for happiness.”
Yeah. Jack needs a life (or a woman he can’t have…now there’s a story).
This peculiar place resembles my childhood…when I wrote my first story. A one page fantasy. Horrible, but fun to read…more fun to write. The few stories I wrote after that were, to say the least, a little weird…well okay, downright implausible. And no, I didn’t write about elves and wizards dueling on the shoals of Lenoria (where people speak in old english, carry swords, and fear the dark-skinned races, usually monsters in caves…but that’s for another blog). Somewhere along the way, I got away from that.
I like character studies…love them, in fact. But you know what I love more? Anime. Comics (haven’t read them in years, but they’re still dope). Octavia Butler (so far, the only sci-fi writer who I not only can stomach, but thoroughly enjoy). Hip-Hop. Rock. Wild, exaggerated people in even more exaggerated garb (aka hipsters…they’re fun to look at). Superhero movies. Toni Morrison. Star Wars (yeah, I know). And so on and so forth and yadda yadda yadda.
And the fact that so little of my writing encompasses the thrills and joys of the above list (being inspired by them, not straight biting off of them) leaves me with the conclusion “well of course you hate what you write…you’re writing everything like everyone else…but you won’t write what you want to read.” Truth be told, I think I’m more interested in writing a kick-ass story with depth, texture and the ills (and positives) of the human condition…certainly more interested than writing about Jack’s boring ass.
I’ll put it like this. I love Jhumpa Lahiri’s work…I’m a genuine fan. She writes a lot about immigration, displacement, leaving an entire nation and culture in the name of wanting or needing more. That’s an aspect of her life. I tried funneling aspects of my life into my work…no dice. Does that mean my life is boring? Probably. But if I’m going to write about my life deliberately, I might as well write a memoir. But fiction? For me, it should take me somewhere…and as a writer, I want to do the same for you. So of course Lahiri’s work intrigues me…what do I know about immigration, starting over in a new country, being from India in general?
So it’s scary, but right now, I’m just writing what I love. Wanting to take people to places they’ve never been. It just so happens the world, these places, exist in my head.
Well damn, that’s exciting.
Anyway, sorry for the rant. I’m on vacation this weekend, but I’ll update again next week. Peace.
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