by Alex

In between catching up on all the STUFF that piles up when one is finishing a novel…  taxes, vet appointments, eye exams, thank you notes, gardening…

I’ve been letting myself do a lot of reading.  (So nice, to be out on the porch, in the Spring, in one of those classic rocking chairs, just – reading… watching plants grow and the world go by…)

This time, uncharacteristically,  I am not reading with a particular project in mind.   See, I’m not one of those writers who can’t read other authors while I’m starting/in the middle of/finishing a book or script.   I don’t tend to pick up on other authors’ styles.   Not at all, actually.   I have too many of my own special issues which color every word and character and theme that I put to a page to worry about duplicating anyone.   It’s just not really conceivable.    I wouldn’t be writing anything, at all, if there were already something out there that I could read instead of having to write it.   To be blunt (and not for the first time) I just don’t like writing that much to bother, if it already exists.

So I tend to read a LOT of similar books in my genre when I’m writing on a project, for many reasons, not the least of which is to remind myself that if I don’t write this, I’ll never be able to read it,  because no one ELSE would be fool enough to write it.

And because I’m not officially working, I get to read ANYTHING this week.   I have let myself be very eclectic… very, very eclectic… what some writer friend of mine refers to as foraging…  because I want to be absolutely sure what I want to write next before I commit to it.

I wrote something really hard this last book.   It’s a great idea – high concept premise, great characters (“So CASTABLE!!!!  as we say in Hollywood…).  But very difficult emotionally.   I had to go to very dark places.  It wasn’t a lot of fun.   I’m writing something at least as hard this next book.

And I was kind of wondering if it really had to be this hard. 

So I’m reading a wide range of books, including a lot of books that are bestsellers, but not particularly hard books.  Those I’m not going to name so that I can be more honest about them.    As usual I didn’t find much that gripped me, and as usual I didn’t bother finishing most of them because I wasn’t engaged enough to care.   Out of probably four dozen books there were only two that I really read:  Barbara Kingsolver’s PRODIGAL SPRING and Denise Mina’s THE DEAD HOUR.  I’ve read a lot of Kingsolver, I’m a huge fan.   I’ve never heard of Denise Mina, but I’ll for sure be reading her again.

Now the bestsellers I read are all recent titles by established writers –  not the breakout books that made these authors bestsellers to begin with.   Still, I understand why the books sell.   It’s pretty much about premise.   The books have big, thriller premises.   You can pitch them in a logline and GET what the story is and think, “Yeah, I’ll try that story.”    There’s a fairly unique hook.   The books are also competently plotted – the stories are taut, and flow well, there’s (on the surface) a good cast of characters with good balance between protagonists and antagonists). 

But.

I just didn’t care.

I like reading for premise and plot.   I do it often.   But what was missing was actual empathy with the characters.   What was missing was a sensual feeling of actually being INSIDE the story, of having it happen to me, too, instead of just watching.   Very bad things happen to the people in these bestsellers I was reading, including to children, but I shed not a hint of a tear for them.

In PRODIGAL SPRING, on the other hand, Kingsolver had me weeping – I mean completely dissolved – over a lost duckling.   I’m STILL mourning that duckling and it’s been over a week and it’s barely a paragraph of the book.   But the effect on the characters was devastating, and because I was completely devoted to those characters it was devastating to me, too.

In THE DEAD HOUR, a co-worker of protagonist Paddy Meehan’s is seriously injured and the scene where the Paddy walks into the hospital to visit her friend, not knowing what she’s going to find, is excruciating. 

I’ll remember those characters, because those authors made them live, and made me feel what they were feeling.   I can’t walk even around the neighborhood now without being acutely aware and exhilarated by the lushness of Spring all around me, because Kingsolver just made me see and feel and smell and pay attention to it it all in such intricate detail.

It’s an extra layer of complexity and emotion that makes most other books look like mere outlines of books in comparison.

So I guess (she said gloomily) I’ve got the answer to my question.

Yes, it has to be this hard.

Because anything less, and you’ve missed an opportunity to touch readers in a way that won’t be forgotten – that might actually change them a little.    A way that means something.

So how can we not?

Damn it.

So I want some more books that are not just outlines of books.   Genre or non-genre (well, preferably genre!)   Read anything realy good lately?   Something that maybe even made you cry?

by Alex

“Honey, you’re overextended.”

I can’t tell you how many times I heard that from my mother when I was growing up.

She was right, of course, but I never listened to her, of course, because what could a parent know about a teenager’s needs and capacities?   I could do it all.   Of course, I might get sick and have to drop out of a play, or have dreams about climbing a ladder which started to disintegrate in my hands, but that happens to everyone, right?

Well, it’s taken a while, but I think I finally understand that my mother was right.   For whatever reason – and maybe it’s an occupational hazard, you tell me – my tendency is to overextend, to do too much, until I’m compromising my relationships, and at least my quality of life (I would say my health but my health has always been good enough to make me think I’m more okay than I probably am) in my obsessive doing.

And when you’ve been self-employed for basically all your life, there’s no federal agency that steps in and demands overtime and vacation pay.   There’s no one who turns out the lights in the office building at night, forcing at least a change of scenery.   You, the boss, can pretty much work you, the employee, into the ground, with no recompense or repercussions.

So last week, after pretty much killing myself to get my book revisions in, in between traveling to Romantic Times in Houston, back to LA for the LA Times Festival of Books, then straight on to Virginia for Malice Domestic, I stopped.

Completely.

I don’t know how conscious a decision that was.   What happened was that my mind said – “Uh uh.  That’s it.”   And this time I actually listened, instead of doing what I usually do and barreling on ahead to the next few dozen things.

So I’ve been doing nothing.

Doing nothing is hard.  It’s been interesting.  It’s not as much of a joyous relief as you would think because you’re too tired to really enjoy it.

I’ve been sleeping a lot, so there are not as many hours in a day as you would think to do nothing.   There are things that got backed up over the last few months that simply had to get done – cats to the vet, two months of laundry, that kind of thing.  Obviously I’m writing this blog… obviously I’ve done other things like that, which are not doing nothing.  And I did make a stab at doing my taxes but realized that was NOT doing nothing, even though it was not writing, so I am not going back to them until I have another week off).

I joined a new gym with a staggering number of classes throughout the day, so I’ve been doing one or two of those every day (too much, really, but after all these months of sludge…)

I know some people would take this opportunity to travel but I HAVE been traveling.   I don’t want to travel.   I don’t want to do anything.

What I do most of the day is read, of course.   But even this is strangely exhausting – I guess reading is always going to be work, for a writer.   I have quiet, tentative thoughts about it, like – “Why don’t YOU base the next book on a true story…”  – you know, that kind of thing.   I try to allow myself to have the thought without grabbing a notebook and acting on it.

But even though I’ve started tp read dozens of books over the last week, I haven’t read much all the way through, and I haven’t been very happy with anything I have managed to read (that is until yesterday, Louise will like this – Barbara Kingsolver’s PRODIGAL SPRING).

It’s a very uneasy vacation, that has turned into a kind of experiment, along the lines of metaphysical directives like – “When you don’t know what to do, STOP”  and ”When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.”

Well, I’ve stopped.   And already I wonder how long I can keep all this up.

This afternoon I actually have a book signing that’s been on the books for months – it’s just not possible to go on complete hiatus, unfortunately.    And of course there’s an ulterior motive to all this – I want to stop for long enough to feel that surge toward the next book.

But this time I really did overextend myself, and I think I had to go down to as close to nothing as I could manage to figure out what I can cut out, or more gently, let go.   Because something’s got to give, or it’s going to be me.

So I know you all can relate… I’ve seen versions of your meltdowns and enforced vacations here on this very blog.   Do you have any advice on how to get the most out of doing nothing?    Or, hmm, am I already trying to overextend myself again?