The Novel Of Doom: VANQUISHED.
The heap you see here is the last pages of the fifth and final edit of my Novel of Doom. It is now complete and ready for me to start shopping it.
If you were kind enough to come with me on last Summer’s Clarion Write-A-Thon, where I live-wrote the first draft, you may note that this is now the fifth draft. About a third of the scenes have been rewritten, with completely new ones put in. Characterization has been improved. More description to make it more visual has been stuffed in. A few additional subplots have been added. If you read the first draft, I think you’ll find it quite edifying to see the difference between first and final.
And in the past three weeks, I’ve gone through and yanked 15% of the words out, bringing it down to a lean, mean 89.5k.
(I’ve suffered from the Death Flu, but by happy coincidence I did most of the heavy lifting scribbling on pages, noting what emotional notes to add to what scenes, overviews of new dialog, and so forth. So when I’ve been stuck in my house muzzy and stupid, I simply followed the directions I’d given myself one page at a time, flinging it to the other side of the couch when done, and then 10% Solutioned it a chapter at a time.)
So, barring some last-minute proofreadings provided by my helpful assistant jenphalian, this is the finalized novel. I have to take a break, now, and then start reading up on query letters and Synopses That Sell! and all the other crap that comes with finding an agent. Which is going to be a scary process, made a little scarier by some other factors I can’t get into now but will probably end up helping.
But right now? That’s a full novel. Sixteen months of effort. And it is done.
Enter: Low-Content Mode
Since I’m sick, I’ll instead point you at Cat Valente’s post on writing over here – as is the case with all writing advice (and this is part three of a huge post), there’s some I agree and disagree with, but points #6 and #7 here are fixtures in my writing canon.
In particular, a chat with her on #7 really helped me focus my novel. When developing fake cultures, understanding What Is Known To Be True is a very good guideline for creating cultures and then picking them apart (as I tend to do in my stories, where it’s not just the characters at stake, but their understanding of the world they live in – check “Devour” for an example of that in action).
Anyway, good stuff. Useful. As this should be if I’m, you know, going to point to it.
My Valentine's Day
Thanks to evolving Death Flu, the romance for Gini and I last night consisted of chugging NyQuil and collapsing into bed by 10:00. We know how to party at La Casa McJuddMetz. (Alas, I had a big night planned with all sorts of kinky shenanigans, too. But now the ice chicken’s melted.)
In other news, is anyone else as fucking creeped out by Brent’s googly terror-eyes over at PVP as I am? Those huge, jiggling orbs look like flan inside a fishbowl. I know it’s supposed to make Brent more sensitive and expressive, but instead he just looks like Shaggy going “ZOIKS!” as he sees a monster for everything, including when he’s ordering coffee. Brent’s gone from uber-cool to Mister Wimpy, and I keep worrying that he’ll accidentally catch those enlarged orbs on a pencil or something and they’ll leak out of his head. It’ll be like that dude at the end of Raiders, only with eyes. And then who will comfort Skull?
It's Valentine's Day For Everyone, So Celebrate Regardless
So with every Valentine’s Day comes an unfortunate backlash from cantankerous singles: I’m not dating anyone. Why should I have to endure a day dedicated to fake romance? It’s so commercial, designed by card companies, and if you have to be reminded to be nice to your partner on a special day then it can’t be a good relationship at all yadda yadda yadda…
Look. Nobody likes wine made from sour grapes.
Being single has its sucktacular momentsand I can understand how the day might make you feel a little blue – but I think part of being a good human involves learning to cheer for accomplishments that aren’t yours. My lifetime dream is to have a novel published, but that doesn’t mean I can’t celebrate to the rafters when a friend of mine snags her first novel sale. I’m not always thrilled when one of my partners finds a new boyfriend, but I still find a way to be happy for them.
Sometimes, a celebration’s not for you, and yet you should be happy for other people even though there’s nothing for you in it.
And yes, the day is commercial. But it’s also an excuse for people to go out of their way to be kind to each other – which isn’t something we celebrate enough. In an ideal world, perhaps every couple would be spewing wild declarations of passion to each other daily – Gini and I do – but for those who aren’t quite as open with their affections, having a day that encourages them to say “Lordy, I love you” is a Good Thing. Not everybody’s going to be as enlightened as you.
Occasionally, someone bitter comes up with the idea of “Singles Day,” which is blackly defined as an opposite to Valentine’s Day. I say, fuck that. If you’re going to devise a Singles Day, let’s define one as part of the strengths of being single, the way you can pursue what you love without worry of alienating someone else, as a time to be passionate about other things, as a time to experience a different and in some ways stronger kind of life.
And if that happened, where for a day I was suffused in the reminders of all the little compromises I’ve made for love, I’d cheer the shit out of that too. Because if your life is bettered in some way, I’m for it.
A Spoonful Of Jealous Makes The Poly Go 'Round
If you’re dating me, you’re most likely polyamorous, so let me give you some wise advice:
Be a little jealous once in a while.
I don’t desire a constant jealousy – a fuming “Oh, I saw you talking with HER” isn’t going to help much. I’m apparently a flirty person, even if I don’t always see that, and if I have to spend most of my time smoothing your feathers, well, I can’t see this working out in the long run.
But a dash of jealousy lets me know you care.
The occasional revelation that sometimes you’re envious of the attention I lavish upon others tells me you value the time we spend together. A periodic insecurity that I might leave lets me know that I occupy a space in your life that no one else can fill.
If you’re too cool, I start to think that I’m interchangeable in your life, a nice option that you’d get by without. If your attitude towards the orgy I just had with the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders is a constant, “Oh, that’s great, I’m sure they’re wonderful in bed,” then I start to wonder whether you love me or just don’t mind having me around when I happen to be there.
And in return, I might admit the guy you were exchanging silly puns with on Twitter last night made me twinge. Just a teeny bit. Nothing I can’t live with, because the name of this game is open relationships, but hey. Sometimes we’re irrational that way, no matter how we front. And I won’t act upon that emotion, but I’ll let you know it’s there.
Admit you’re a little nuts. Because I know I’m a little nuts about you, love.