When Does Writing Become a Chore?

Why do writers write? Because they love it, of course. But I've noticed that sometimes, I lose the joy in writing. Instead of a fun activity, writing becomes a chore. And the second I start thinking of writing in terms of work, boom! Hello, writer's block!

But how does that happen? What makes that little switch inside my head turn from fun mode into work mode?

After a bit of thought, I'll venture this explanation: there is no cookie-cutter explanation to magically make things easier, to suddenly give us phenomenal creative power. We all get tired from real life, tired from imaginary life, just plain tired. Sometimes, we're not tired, but just in a listless mood. Sometimes we're distracted (okay, maybe we're always distracted). I could go on and on.

Ultimately, can I stop myself from slipping into work mode? Nope, I don't have that much self-control. But I can train myself to recognize when I've slipped into work mode, and slip myself back into fun mode, or at least a fun work mode halfway between. It doesn't have to be an instant change--it just has to be fast enough to get the stories back on track.

As writers, we're never going to be in top writing form 24/7. (That's a dream to write about.) However, we can challenge ourselves, memorize our weaknesses, and just experiment with whatever works to remind us that writing is beautiful, and that is why we write.

Book Review: Prince of Thorns

This book (which has an AWESOME cover) starts out quite promising and engrossing, then grows a bit disturbing and annoying. It ends before it can redeem itself.

The first page introduces a battlefield charmingly:

Ravens! Always the ravens.

Well done; I was hooked. But it wasn't long before credulity got strained to the max. Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath isn't just your typical tramautized princeling with a dark past and an even darker future. This barely fourteen-year-old is also a leader of a band of cutthroats. Ahem? Sure, a lust for power often drives men of all ages into leadership roles--but seriously, a kid bossing around a bunch of tough cookies bigger and badder than he is? That's a stretch, even if he's over six feet tall and bent on a mission of revenge.

Also, I read the book cover to cover, and I still can't figure out if Honorous is just another title for the prince, or if his real first name is Honorous. Maybe I missed something somewhere?

To be fair, Jorg is a very compelling character. He has a tenacity just snarky enough make you like him, even while you are always wondering WHY this kid hadn't dunced himself to death yet. (Is dunced a word? If not, I call dibs for first use!) For every flash of brilliance Jorg gets, he seems to pull two or three royal face-plants. His well-drawn characterization, as well as a couple other characters, is what kept me turning pages--even when I became less and less impressed with a band that didn't seem to mind pillaging, killing, and raping their way through undefended villages. The reign of terror wanes against innocents as the book goes on, but still, that thorn festers. Resolution is needed there.

At the last minute, Jorg's secret, which even he doesn't know, is finally revealed. Spoiler alert: he's been a puppet in the hands of a master sorcerer. His ability to hold sway over men (and even spirits); his lust for blood and power and revenge; his crazy mood swings; everything he is owes itself to the sorcerer's manipulative powers. The reason is good, and made everything I mentally complained about make sense. But that understanding came too late. The balance of foreshadowing and keeping the reader in the dark needed work. If we readers are in for a big surprise that answers all our questions at the end, we need more indicators to lend credibility early on. Otherwise we are rolling our eyes. I sure rolled my eyes a lot.

But I wouldn't mind that very much if Jorg had shown more remorse about all the bad things he had done, or had allowed his men to do. Especially the killing and raping. At the end, he makes a resolution to abstain from that in future--but then he blatantly refuses to apologize for past wrongs. Um, what? Doing better in future is nice, but not enough--not if you don't show proper regret and sorrow for what you did in the past. What's the point of mending your ways if you don't feel repentance first? A casual hey, that wasn't quite so cool after all, let's lay off that isn't acceptable. If a guy hurts people that badly, and he's supposed the hero, he needs to be extremely upset about it. A bundle of messed-up angst.

Then maybe, just maybe, readers will forgive him. But without that penitence, readers are going to feel angry, because they came to care about a character that disappointed them. That's how I felt.

Maybe a hero, or even a dark hero, wasn't what Mark Lawrence was aiming to paint. Maybe Jorg was meant to be an anti-hero in a protagonist's role all along. That's the only way I can make any sense of the ending--and still, I'm not fully satisfied. I think there are more books on the way--if so, I sure hope Jorg shows repentance in a sequel.

A Celebration Is in Order!

Happy 200th Anniversary to one of my favorite novels of all time! Congratulations, Miss Austen. Your work is still very much appreciated, even after all these years. If we fanatics have anything to say about it, we'll keep on reading and discussing and admiring for another two hundred years as well. And another two hundred after that.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

Those words are immortal, and also one of the best and briefest proofs that Pride and Prejudice is not simply another mushy romance novel. The opening line is not about twu wuv, or how lonely hearts are destined to find each other some day, or some similar drivel. If Elizabeth Bennet's story was a romance, the first words would reflect that. They would promise sugar and spice and everything nice, drowned in saccharine feelings. Instead, Miss Austen provides us with a wry spin on life's quirks. If anything, it's a (somewhat gentle) parody of romance. She gives us the promise of a witty caper in manners, social commentary, and the way impressions and perceptions alter over time.

One more point, and I'll give it a rest. The title is Pride and Prejudice, not Love and Romance.

Commentary on the Picture of Dorian Gray - Part 2

I left off while describing the artist Basil Hallward and the divan-gracer Lord Henry Wotton talking about the subject of the portrait. Well, the entire book can't go on with just two side characters talking about the main, and sure enough, Dorian eventually makes his appearance.

I don't find the boy himself quite as fascinating as Basil's description, though. Dorian seems kind of like an empty shell, albeit a pretty one, with no goal in life. Not at first, anyway.

That changes when impressionable Dorian listens to Lord Henry's words about passing beauty. Like a Narcissus that wants to gaze at the same unchanged face in the mirror forever, he offers up his soul in exchange for youth and beauty unmarred by time's ravages. (This theme of the soul's worth and function seemed to fascinate Wilde, for it crops up again in his short story about a fisherman that sells his soul to be with a soulless mermaid. Can you say "still a better love story than Twilight"?)

As Dorian ages imperceptibly, his friendship with Lord Henry earns him a similar reputation as that of Lord Henry--an impossibly corrupt but impossibly fashionable rogue.

It's really amusing that practically everyone, especially matrons with young daughters, chide Henry for his rotten morals one minute, and invite him to a dinner party the next. It's like they just think of him as a sort of naughty tropical bird to add color to social gatherings, like a parrot that swears. So long as you cover the kiddies' ears, he won't do much harm. So seems their reasoning.

Either that, or they secretly admire Henry for having the confidence saying every wicked, controversial thought that comes into his head. And then cluck their tongues at him so they can feel better about suppressing their own wild side. I really don't know.

This funny, flippant character type seems to be a favorite of Wilde's--it pops up in many of his other works, too--which, incidentally, I blazed through right after reading Dorian Gray. (And that recurring personality encourages me. In my own writing, I have a character type that insists on dominating half my stories in different forms. I've been developing it--him--without knowing it since I was little. No wonder I'm compelled to write.)

I can't help wondering if these recurring characters, consciously or unconsciously, were based on Wilde himself. Interestingly, he rarely, if ever, condemns them himself--he merely states that others do. He seems fond of them, like an indulgent father.

It also makes me wonder if he wrote his works, especially The Picture of Dorian Gray, just as he wanted them--or if he had to keep some parts to himself, to avoid offending the conservative sensibilities of the time. At any rate, he still did offend, and that mightily, from what little I've read of the reception from contemporaries.

(ETA: I've since read a summary or two on Wilde's life, and now I feel a tad dense for stumbling at the obvious. Of course he's speaking through his characters. Don't all writers? Also, there is apparently more than one version of The Picture of Dorian Gray--primarily, the thirteen-chapter version first published in a magazine, and the edited and expanded twenty-chapter version published as a full-fledged novel, complete with the defensive preface. Now I'm curious to find a text of the original . . .)

The theme of ideals, which Wilde touched on in the beginning, reappears when Dorian falls madly in love with a little-known actress. Just as Basil was entranced by Dorian, Dorian himself is entranced by the girl, who personifies his ideal of beauty and perfection in every possible way. (I'm sure all of us can identify with that.)

This state of worshipful ecstasy doesn't last; when the girl purposely botches a performance to prove just how lovesick she is for Dorian, Dorian's interest vanishes. Feeling only the sting of his own crushed feelings, he leaves her to pick up the pieces of her broken heart.

Pity doesn't settle in until he hears of her death--and he realizes it was a suicide into the bargain.

But guilt doesn't fully take hold until he realizes that his lost soul has gained a stain, and that his portrait, which Basil used his own soul to paint, now reflects the state of Dorian's soul. (Spoilers: it isn't pretty.)

I love the idea of using a picture to paint a metaphor.

Commentary on The Picture of Dorian Gray - Part 1

This will be the first in a long series of posts, basically detailing thoughts and impressions from the books I am and will be reading. I'm thinking about using these posts as an exercise in writing and in analyzing, because, guess what? You notice so much more while reading if you read like you've got an essay to write. It's freaky, but it makes sense. I wish I'd realized it sooner.

I put off reading The Picture of Dorian Gray for a while, and now that I've finally read it, I regret that I hadn't started long ago. The entire book seems to ooze a vivid, breathtaking atmosphere, permeated alternately with grace and darkness. It's simply addictive. In this first part, I'll stick to just the beginning, because it deserves lots of attention.

(Warning: spoilers in abundance.)

First off, the Prelude (which had been written about a year after first publication of the story itself, to defend it from moral critics) is both intriguing and confusing. In his eloquent defense of art and beauty melded as one, Wilde makes an interesting statement about the true worshipers of beauty.

"They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty."

Sure, we all tend to like pretty things because they appeal to us, but is it really as simple as that? I don't just see beauty in beautiful things, especially art that required time and skill to create. I also see love, joy, comfort, care, devotion, and attention to detail. Beauty is often the product of a lot of work, isn't it?

"All art is at once surface and symbol."

Wow. I could think on that forever. Just, wow. All the complex layers boggle the mind. Depending on who is observing and how that person observes, a person can skim over a work of art without a second thought, or that person can dwell obsessively on that work of art till he/she sees hidden meanings and angles that even the author didn't intend. (I also can't help wondering if this talk of symbols is a direct contradiction to simple, meaningless beauty, or if it's just me.)

I think art is both subjective and objective in its way, because on the one hand, the author has a clear message in mind while writing, whether that message becomes apparent to the beholder or not. On the other hand, there are so many different ways to interpret the same work of art, regardless of the author's own interpretation. But I'm going down a bunny trail . . .

The first chapter's opening is very fitting, after that preface--an artist gazing in admiration at one of his own portraits in his studio. A friend of his lies comfortably stretched across a divan, smelling luxuriously-described scents from the outside. (I think what I envy the most of Wilde's skills is his descriptive magic. Beautiful though it is, it's not always easy to keep reading, because I want to dive into a corner and cry and swear I'll never try to write again.)

To arrest attention right away, one of these three subjects must be good-looking. Wilde presents the reader with two--the portrait and the guy gracing the divan. (I'm now convinced that most, if not all books, should begin with an attractive guy gracing a divan. Yes, please.)

Naturally, when the dialogue begins, the subject of conversation is the one man in the room that can't speak--the image of Dorian Gray.

Lord Henry Wotton, the guy on the divan, wants the artist, Basil Hallward, to cough up the name of his stunning subject. Basil doens't want to, comparing parting with a name with parting with a piece of the person. Such a fascinating thought! I can sympathize--sometimes I feel as if something is too precious to talk about, too. So I end up writing it instead.

Eventually, Wotton does wheedle Dorian Gray's name and more from his friend. They go on talking for quite a while, and practically everything Wotton says is brilliant and hysterical. I want to quote him, but it's hard to pick just one line, and not just rip off the entire chapter. Okay, I got it:

"I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects."

I dare anyone and everyone to not burst a blood vessel laughing at that line. It's perfection, pure perfection.

Speaking of perfection, as Basil goes on to get Lord Henry and the reader more interested in Dorian, he says that meeting Dorian was like meeting someone who would take over his life through his art. I know that feeling all too well, but I never was able to put it into words like that. I wonder if that's a common feeling among writers?

A Muse on a Heroine

A trend of thought seems to have emerged in The Hunger Games fandom. When people think Katniss Everdeen, they think of a strong, powerful heroine. Katniss has basically become the symbol of young girl without a single weakness.

Why do so many people assume Katniss Everdeen has no weakness? Where does Suzanne Collins states or implies in her Hunger Games trilogy that her heroine has no weakness?

Nowhere.

Why think of Katniss only as a cold, calculating girl with a lethal aim glaring down a bow and arrow? Sure, that's an iconic image, but Katniss is so much more than that. It's only one facet of her incredible personality. What do you think motivates her prowess for survival? Weakness, naturally.

Her weaknesses play a huge part in bringing out her strengths into sharp relief. She forces herself to be strong because she must--because she's too weak to risk losing what she loves most. Her country, her friends, and most of all, her family. Her little sister Primrose is probably the biggest driving force of the entire trilogy.

Is this weakness, tempered by love into strength, not the very essence of heroism?

Along with her emotional weaknesses, the personal flaws of Katniss mold her into a very complex, very gripping, very real character. She will linger, burned into our memories, long after we forget other supposedly popular characters from this time period in books.

If Katniss were infallible, if she were without weakness, would she spend almost every waking moment, and many of her dreaming moments, worrying for the safety of others? Would she cry herself to sleep so many nights, or force herself to go on when all her body wants was to roll over and die?

No. Katniss worries, despite the fact that she's one of the most dangerous teenage girls ever to surface in the Games, because she fears no strength of her own can overcome the sheer odds stacked steeply against her. One scared girl against the world and the cruel death sentences it sends after her, one after another.

The only thing that keeps Katniss going is not strength, which she is constantly exhausting, but weakness. All the people who she worries about are vulnerable in one way or another. They need her, and she needs to take care of them and know they'll remain safe. Mutual weakness.

Now for some closing metaphors. Think of the mockingjay as a bird soaring on high--but don't forget that it feels the fire singing its feathers all too keenly. Don't think the wings beat wind and flame merely for their own glory; realize they do so to keep the mockingjay from falling and dashing against the rocks.

Don't think the piercing, chilling birdsong floats through the air just to fill the silence.

The birdsong is shattering the silence, even though the mockingjay knows the noise will make it an easy target.

There Really Aren't Words for This

My thoughts and prayers are with the victims and the families of the victims of the shooting in Aurora, CO. With everyone that's feeling upset about this, really, even if they're just sitting around feeling sad and helpless, like me.

I don't want to go to work and have to hear about it tomorrow. I really don't.

That's all I have to say; I feel enough has been said already, and more than enough will follow.

On the Scary Side of Writing

I've been in a writing slump for way longer than I want to admit lately. I'm slowly, very slowly, dragging myself out of that rut. Basically, I've been frozen by fear of letting my story and characters down.

Ever get the feeling that your imagination dwarfs your skill, and you can't do justice to your ideas? I've got it, and I've got it BAD.

Maybe trying to narrate the story from four main POVs is affecting my overall morale?

Yeah, that's gotta be it. I couldn't go easy on myself and come up with a single-POV story, now could I? *facepalm* Stupid muse. I shouldn't be killing my brain with four POVs this early on.

Here's to everyone who, like me, has a hard time keeping up with a crazy mind. Don't give up--just go read a great book to work up some new motivation.

My Reasons for Writing - Part 1

Stories always make the unreal become vividly real for you, a spark of imagination in your mind and soul. It's a wonderful thing that never ages, this spark, and that is why people who love stories never tire of them.

Even more wonderful is the moment you join your mind and soul in labor with your hands and will, and you bring that spark of imagination to life in the real world. That's the power of storytelling, in all its subtleties.

As I was growing up, reading was my outlet to adventures a shy, timid little girl could never experience otherwise. I didn't have to climb to the top of a ladder, or take a flip off the diving board, or talk to strangers that stare at you like zombies about to eat your brain.

Instead, I could read about living in an 1860's log cabin in a woods filled with wolves, bears, and black panthers. I could experience being taken captive to Egypt in ancient times and rescuing the daughter of an assassinated priest. I could feel what it was to survive as the last of my kind, stranded on a island beset by gusty winds and blue dolphins.

This all became real for me, while I was actually huddled in my room, safe among the fluffy pillows and covers of my bed.

For many bookworms (okay, maybe all bookworms), reading is an escape from whatever troubles them. Several times, I have read notes of gratitude directed to a particular book or series that helped soothe grief, frustration, and depression during difficult times of life. Just as often, that gratitude is owed to music and other arts as well.

Sheltered as I was, I never really had anything to flee from, unless you count boredom and noisy brothers something worth fleeing. (Oh, and the staring strangers as well.) But the reminder of just how much the written word can act as a lifeline struck a chord within me.

That was when I realized that I really like the idea of harnessing my writing ambition, my only ambition, in order to create something meaningful. Something that encourages even as it entertains, that inspires as it instructs, that challenges as it charms. And all with wit and subtlety, as far as my own limited skills allow.

There lies the goal. If I can make a profession of writing story after story that does more souls than my own good, and write them well, I'll be content. I'm never happier than when I'm buried alive in a story, whether another person's creation or my own. I'll see if I can share a bit of joy here and there.

Incidentally, I still get the feeling many strangers are zombies staring at you like they want to eat your brains. I have overcome my fear of ladders, and I did flip off the diving board once when my aunt promised she would do it after me, but I don't think I'll ever fully outgrow the paranoia an active imagination can lend. The only thing keeping me talking to strangers in real life is my love of stories, because it's hard to get a story published if you make no contact with strangers.

I wish strangers were too busy reading a good story to stare at you. Perhaps I should alter my ambition. Not only will I make them smile; I will make them unable to see me through my books. Or, rather, they'll see me as I really am, not as I appear.

That's the irony of writing for cloistered writers. In your words, you bare your soul, because your story can't touch another soul unless you pour your own soul into it first. That's how you snare a glimmer of the unreal to share with others and make it real for them.