NaNoWriMo-ing It Up
Monday, October 31, 2011
It's that time of year again, kids! NaNoWriMo!
This NaNoWriMo badge incorporates all of my favorite things: computers, books, paper, travel...sunny places. |
Thoughts on Writing and Wanderlust
It's that time of year again, kids! NaNoWriMo!
This NaNoWriMo badge incorporates all of my favorite things: computers, books, paper, travel...sunny places. |
The Wedding Pavilion, where we are having our ceremony |
In the Grand Floridian kitchen, our names on the marquee |
I almost forgot today was a ROW80 update, but thankfully I wrote it down in my planner, which I just pulled out for the first time today. (It's been one of those days.) So far I'm meeting my goal of writing everyday, although I must admit that I haven't written that much. Yesterday I added a paragraph to my WIP--only a couple hundred words, but still...it's a start. Considering I hadn't even opened the file in a couple of weeks, a new paragraph feels pretty amazing right now.
In part, I have to thank the Fourth of July for inspiring that paragraph. Because I'm so overwhelmed with work right now, at the last minute Monday evening I decided not to go to my town's Fourth of July celebration. Instead, I decided I would work until 9:00 p.m. and then treat myself to the fireworks display and the newest episode of Weeds. The fireworks were shot off from the ball fields just down the street from my house, so when I heard the first explosion at 9:00, I paused Weeds and went outside and sat on my front steps. Up and down my street, people abandoned backyard barbecues and house parties to gather with their friends and families and watch the twenty minute spectacle. I'm pretty sure I'm the only person who was watching the fireworks alone, which may sound depressing, but was actually a blessing in disguise. The fireworks were absolutely amazing, probably the best show I've seen outside of the Magic Kingdom, colorful and creative and perfectly choreographed. And it was exactly the inspiration I needed to write that paragraph yesterday.
My novel opens with the protagonist on a beach by herself watching a similar display, one also representative of independence and freedom, so watching the fireworks Monday night really put me in the right frame of mind to rewrite that scene. In fact, I was rewriting it in my head the entire time I was sitting outside watching the fireworks, and afterwards I went inside and sketched out the basics of the scene. (Okay, I watched Weeds first--but it did get written, so that's all that matters.)
So I'm two for two so far this week. The rest of this week will be a bit trickier because I'm going to Orlando for the weekend, but I'm taking my pocket-sized notebook with me so I can scribble lines and phrases while I'm waiting in line to ride Space Mountain or something. And I plan on seeing fireworks at least twice this weekend, so maybe I'll even work on the opening scene some more. (And have much more to say during Sunday's update!)
Hope you're all having a productive writing week as well!
My first attempt at ROW80 was, if not a total failure, pretty close to it. I struggled to reach my goals for the first month or so, and then, in the midst of finals and with my London sojourn looming on the horizon, I just gave up entirely. I'm not proud of this, but I also don't regret it. I don't think I would have enjoyed myself nearly as much in London if I'd been constantly worried about meeting word counts and checking off a to-do list, and I really needed that month to regroup and heal my dysfunctional relationship with my dissertation. Now the dissertation and I are very much in love again, I've come to terms with the fact that I cannot afford to run away and live in London forever, and I've learned that my ROW80 goals last time were a little ridiculous, at least for my first time.
This time around I've promised myself that I will Do Better, that I will make it all the way to the end, so I've set a single, more manageable goal:
I will write everyday.
That's right. Starting Monday, July 4, for the next 80 days I will write every single day. Here's the great thing, though, and the reason I might actually accomplish this goal: I'm not giving myself a target word or page limit. I'm not restricting what kind of writing I do everyday. Whether I write four pages on my dissertation, twelve words on my novel, or a two-paragraph blog post, it all counts. As long as I get into the habit of writing everyday, I've decided it doesn't matter what kind of writing I'm doing.
I've got some help this time around as well. I've got several Very Important writing deadlines coming up that have been established by the powers that be (i.e. the dissertation director and the editor publishing one of my articles). For those days I'm feeling blocked, I can exercise my writing muscles in Julianna Baggott's virtual boot camp, which sounds both fun and super productive. And I'm moving to Pennsylvania and won't be teaching for awhile, which should give me more writing time.
So no excuses. I can do this, and you can, too. If you want to join the coolest writing challenge out there, the only one that lets you set the goals, then you should sign up for ROW80, too.
Tomorrow is the first day of my summer class, so I thought I'd better squeeze in one more blog post before the craziness ensues. This is the first time I've taught a five-week mini-semester, so it is going to be a challenge to cram a 15-week class into 5 weeks. The class meets five days a week for an hour and a half, so that's going to present its own challenges. I haven't taught five days a week since I taught middle/high school, and I've never taught classes that were that long. Despite my reservations about this teaching schedule, though, I'm looking forward to this class. I'm teaching World Lit II for the first time in a year and a half, so I'm actually getting to teach writers and texts I'm somewhat knowledgeable about!
Because of the abbreviated nature of the term, I decided to teach a class devoted entirely to the short story, and I'm really excited about my syllabus. Over the next five weeks I'll get to share (and rediscover) my love for Alice Munro, Raymond Carver, Flannery O'Connor, Katherine Mansfield, Jorge Luis Borges, Kate Chopin, and Edwidge Danticat, among others. Because this is a "world" literature class, I couldn't include all of the Anglo-American writers I wanted (including Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Lorrie Moore, Margaret Atwood, and Jhumpa Lahiri), but I am getting to teach a wide variety of international authors I've never taught before-- Hanan Al-Shaykh, Can Xue, Bessie Head, and Ben Okri, just to name a few. I'm also having my students do group projects on current trends in short fiction, and they will be presenting on topics like microfiction, flash fiction, and online journals. My ideas for the project are still developing, so if you have any topics you think I should include, please let me know!
The final reason that I'm excited about this class is that it will be my last one for awhile. That's right, you heard it here first! (Or maybe not, if you talk to me in person regularly....) I finally broke the Big News to my dissertation director this week: I will not be returning to Auburn in the fall. I'm not dropping out of school; I've just decided to "dissertate" from afar. So at the beginning of August I'm moving to Pennsylvania, where my fiance lives, and the plan is to take at least a year off from teaching.
This is a break that I really need. The past few semesters I feel like I've just been skating by, doing the bare minimum, and at times I've resented how much time I've had to dedicate to prepping and grading over doing my own research or writing. This is mostly my fault (there were semesters when I was teaching four or five classes split between two institutions), but it's also in part because I've spent the past year teaching only World Lit I, a class I tried to enjoy but got over really quickly. I was talking with another instructor the only day and was shocked to hear that during annual review he told the program coordinator that he refused to add any more women to his syllabus because that would require teaching works he had not studied before, and he could not devote the time to researching and prepping new texts. This shocked me especially because when I first taught World Lit I, I was teaching nothing BUT texts I'd never been taught or even read before: The Ramayana, Egyptian love poetry, Wu Chengen's Monkey, Lysistrata, Dante's Inferno, etc.
Every semester this is what I do. I teach almost entirely new texts, in part because I see teaching as an excuse to read things I otherwise might never push myself to read. But I know I'm also burning myself out with all the extra prepping and researching. I don't ever want to become the kind of teacher who refuses to teach new texts, so I think I need this time to reevaluate who I am as a teacher, who I want to be, and how I can sanely be that person when I have so many other obligations to meet. I also think I need the time to miss teaching, something I have done in the past but haven't done in a looooong time.
On a happier note, since today is officially the last day of summer for me, my brother and I decided to take one last little trip this weekend--we drove to Milledgeville, Georgia, to see Flannery O'Connor's house and grave. We are both big O'Connor fans, so it was nice to share the experience with someone else who has read most of her stories and novels.
O'Connor lived at Andalusia, her family's farm, for the last thirteen years of her short (39 year) life, and she wrote many of her most famous stories while living there. We were the only two visitors there, and we had free-reign to walk around the house (the unrestricted areas, at least) and the grounds. The house itself is fairly unassuming. It isn't some grand plantation house, but a modest white two-story with a screened-in front porch. The grounds surrounding it, including the pond, barn, and several out buildings, are not particularly impressive or memorable. I think the most inspiring part of the house was how uninspiring it was. Being at Andalusia really helped me to see that if you have a rich imagination, you don't need to live in Paris or New York or some other inspiring place to write honest, creative stories. Although O'Connor spent a few years in Iowa attending the Iowa Writer's Workshop, as well as time at Yaddo and in New York and Connecticut, the majority of her life was spent in the town of Milledgeville and living on that farm. Despite this "limitation," she used her background and experiences in the rural South to create stories and characters that have long out-lived her.
I've always been reluctant to write about the South, about the people and places where I grew up, but I think it's time I start digging into them a bit deeper, mining my memories and experiences for their story potential. I think, in many ways, that's what my stories have been missing, that moment of truth and authenticity that can only come from sharing a lived experience. Maybe it's time I start "writing what I know," as opposed to "writing what I've learned."
Me on the famous front steps of the O'Connor house |
Flannery O'Connor's bedroom at Andalusia |
O'Connor dining room |
One of the peacocks on the farm. There were around 50 of them when Flannery lived here. |
Barn and Milk House at Andalusia |
O'Connor's grave at Memory Hill Cemetary |
I've been back from my Great London Adventure for a few days now, and it's amazing how quickly things return to normal. Within hours after arriving back in the States, I was already feeling as if I'd never left, just as within hours after arriving in London, I felt as if I'd never lived (or belonged) anywhere else. Today I'm working on my summer syllabus, proofreading the latest issue of The Scriblerian, and reviewing a fellow contributor's essay for a collection on travel/tourism coming out next year. Tomorrow I have a list of wedding-related errands to run (including picking up my dress, which came in three months early!) and paperwork to complete. In other words, things here are just as I left them at the beginning of May. Part of me might even be tempted to believe the whole trip was a dream if it weren't for the little mementos I come across throughout the day: my British Library reader card tucked into a pocket of my backpack; a receipt from Sainbury's folded in my wallet; a Bath train ticket being used as a bookmark; an open bag of Haribo Hari gummies in my purse; the last two lemon macaroons chilling in the fridge. Despite these reminders, it is still hard for me to believe that a week ago I was at Versailles, fighting the palace crowds; wandering through the endless gardens; lying in the grass by the Grand Canal, eating tomato pizza and scoops of pistachio and mango gelato; and peeking through the dust-coated windows of Marie Antoinette's Hamlet.
The Queen's Hamlet has always been my favorite place at Versailles, and one of my favorite places in the Paris region. I've often heard it spoken of snidely, as the place where Marie Antoinette went to play farm girl, to pretend peasantry when palace life got to be too much for her--an idyllic charade that made the French populace even angrier and more resentful of the royals during the Revolutionary period. But when I'm at the Hamlet, I tend to see it the way I think good ole Marie did--as a perfect escape, a breath of fresh air when the rest of the world gets to be too imposing, chaotic...noisy.
The first time I visited the Hamlet was in 2005. I'd spent the previous seven days running around Paris, dragging my friends through museum after museum, hopping from Metro line to Metro line, climbing staircase after staircase to take in wide, sweeping views of cityscape--concrete, plaster, asphalt, and brick stretching all the way to the horizon. Yes, there were occasional patches of green, and every once in awhile we'd stop to rest our feet by the fountain pool in Luxumbourg Gardens or bask in the sunlight on the Sacre Coeur steps, but even then, the city was always breathing, panting all around us. There was nowhere we could go to escape the sounds of city life: the car horns, squealing bus brakes, non-stop chatter in more languages than I could recognize.
Don't get me wrong. I'm a city girl at heart. I love the speed and energy of city life, the constant movement, the surge of adrenaline I feel every time I run to catch a train or cross a busy intersection or fight my way through a crowded plaza. I need the chaos in order to, occasionally, appreciate the calm, the quiet, the peace of green spaces. And that's exactly what I found at the Queen's Hamlet--calm, quiet, peace--all things I didn't know I missed or was looking for until I had them. And then I never wanted to leave.
Visiting the Queen's Hamlet is now the thing I look forward to most at Versailles--it's the perfect escape after fighting the palace hoards to see the thrones or Marie Antoinette's bed chamber or the Hall of Mirrors. It feels so remote, tucked away in its little corner of the estate, acres of fields and pastures and streams and lake. It's still a working farm, with donkeys, sheep, goats, cows, and the fattest rabbits I've ever seen. And even though I had to share the experience with a much larger crowd of people than I had previously (everywhere I went this trip felt more crowded than before), I still felt a sense of calmness descend over me when my eyes first swept over the hills and saw the moulin. It's the same feeling I get every time I see one of Monet's Nympheas, the feeling that compels me whenever I'm in New York/Paris/London/San Francisco, and feeling stressed or tired or overwhelmed, to go to the Met/l'Orangerie/Tate Modern/Legion of Honor and sit in front of one of Monet's numerous water lily paintings, focusing only on the swirling pools of blue, green, and purple oil and tuning out everything else. In those moments, the city is silenced, the chaos stilled, and nothing exists for me except Monet's thick, broad strokes and the soothing colors of his palette. This is the feeling I get when I return to the Hamlet.
Having so many other tourists around this time had an interesting effect, though. It actually pushed me closer to the buildings, forced me off the approved paths and into the little nooks and hideaways Marie Antoinette once sought. All of the main buildings at Versailles are open to the public--the palace, Petit Trianon, Grand Trianon--except those at the Hamlet. These are all closed up, emptied of their furniture and decorations, of any sign that someone once lived in them. And yet, they feel more alive than any other royal residence. Although all of the other buildings are full of original furnishings, artwork, drapes, and even table settings, it is difficult for me to imagine people (namely, Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI) actually eating at those tables or sleeping in those beds or sitting in those salons, entertaining company. The furniture looks too perfect, too staged, too much like what I've seen in a dozen other museums.
In the past, I've also had a difficult time imagining M.A. (it's okay if I call her that, right?) at the Hamlet, but this time--peeking through the unwashed windowpanes of her house into empty rooms, seeing the late afternoon sunlight slanting across the unswept black-and-white-tiled floor--for the first time, I could see her there. I looked straight through the house (there are windows on the front and back, and it's only one room wide) and saw what she saw--the tranquil oasis she had built. The grassy hills and grazing cows and blooming waterlilies on the pond. The open verandas and giant flowerpots and vines of flowers creeping up outdoor staircases. The way the light refracted off the green water. Unlike all of the amply furnished palace rooms I'd passed through that day, this barren room spoke to me and said, Someone lived here. Someone's skirt swept along this floor. Someone pressed her face to this glass and admired this view. Someone lived here.
Sometimes I think I get it all wrong when it comes to "living." I tend to think that if I'm not filling up my hours and days with activity, if I'm not doing something, then I'm not living. As if collecting experiences and stories as if they're Girl Scout badges is what life is all about. But maybe Marie Antoinette had it right. Sometimes in order to appreciate that kind of living, we have to take a step away, have to stop moving altogether. We have to press the pause button on our busy lives and embrace the stillness. We have to empty our minds of all thought and just feel the sun on our faces, the breeze on our skin. Breathe deep breaths of cool, honeysuckle-tinged air. Just live.
It's Friday, the end of my third week here in London, and it's all coming to an end much too quickly. I have just one more week here, and then I'll be headed back to Alabama. It's a bit difficult to even comprehend going back right now. The heat must be unbearable. (Until Wednesday, the weather here was crisp and cool, and the past few days the temperature has been hovering around the low 70s). I have absolutely no idea what's going on back home--I haven't kept up with the news or any television programming--but I assume if anything truly important happened, Facebook would have let me know. It's been so very nice to be almost completely cut off from all of that (by choice), to be fully immersed in my work and life here. I will admit that I'm beginning to feel burned out, though--just a little. I've had a frustrating few days research-wise, and that makes it hard to clear my mind and keep going. I'm also beginning to realize just how much I have left to do, and how there is no way I can get through all of it in the time I have left. I'm trying to let that go, though, and just enjoy the remaining week.
I'm not even going to try to summarize all that I've been doing since my last new post a couple of weeks ago, so instead, I will just show you how I spent last Sunday. (Pictures, except the last, are in no particular order.)
Late afternoon sunlight on St. Martin-in-the-Fields--view from the front of the National Gallery. |
@ Tate Britain: The Lady of Shalott and Ophelia on the same wall. My inner Anne of Green Gables-loving, ten-year-old self could have died of happiness. |
@ Tate Britain: I just really loved the fierceness of this Leighton sculpture. Oh, and Sargent's Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose behind it. |
Springtime @ St. Paul's |
Got to Harrod's after closing, so decided to take a meandering walk home, and ended up here: St. Simon Zelotes. |
Sunday crowds at Buckingham Palace. |
Where the Londoners go to unwind--St. James' Park on a sunny, lazy Sunday. |
And I finished my day with some Indian food and Facebook, looking out over the lovely, quiet courtyard of my OLD flat. But that's a story for another day. :-) |
Friday, 20 May 2011
The last few days have been crazy busy with research. We spent all day Tuesday and Wednesday at the National Archives. Tuesday Jamie and I took the other girls to our favorite pub, The Hourglass, which we went to after work Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. It’s so nice to feel like we are actually working here, not just being tourists.
The National Archives at Kew |
Stacks behind the scenes at the LMA. |
Tim, a conservationist at the LMA, showing us a book that has been burned to a brick. |
Trafalgar Square from the front of the National Gallery. |
Covent Garden |
St. Paul's |
The Globe |
I fully intended to use Tumblr to record all of my doings while I'm here in London, but alas, it did not work as planned. Internet access was spotty for awhile, and I found myself updating every two or three days instead of everyday, and then I realized how wonky the Tumblr formatting is if you try to upload pics AND say anything substantial about them. (How dare I.) So I'm returning to the blog. First, in case you didn't see the few Tumblr posts I did, I'm going to repost them on here, then I'll add new posts, with exciting new pictures and reflections on my time spent in London. I'm exactly two weeks in right now, exactly half-way through my program here, which is incredibly exciting (because of how much I've learned and done) and incredibly sad (because I'm having an amazing time here and don't want to leave anytime soon--or maybe ever. I'll say more about all of that in a little while, but, until then, here is the first of the Tumblr posts:
16 May 2011
Monday began with a tour of Guildhall Library. This is the old library; far fancier than the one in current usage. After combing through some of the library treasures, we had lunch in the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral and then went on a walking tour of the Old City, including stops at Smithfield Market, St. Bartholomew’s Church, the Roman Wall ruins, Wesley Chapel, and Bunhill Fields cemetery, where Defoe is memorialized and Blake is buried.
Old Guildhall Library |
Royal Albert Hall |
Peter Pan Statue in Kensington Gardens |
The most awesome duck ever. |
Baby swans!!! |
It's been awhile since my last blog, so it seems I am failing on several fronts right now. Although I've been trying to keep up with my ROW80 goals, I haven't been blogging updates the last couple of weeks. And I haven't been doing all that great a job at meeting my goals. I kept telling myself, "Next update. You'll blog next update," but then the next Sunday or Wednesday would come and go, and I still hadn't updated. I could make a million excuses for this (end-of-semester grading, research projects, getting ready for London, huge family issues and the disaster that has been my personal life these past two weeks), but the truth is I simply let other things distract me from my writing and my goals. This last week has been a special kind of hell (The second circle perhaps? I sort of feel like I'm being beat by a cold, dark wind....), and I'm sitting here at Logan Airport right now, feeling unprepared in every way for the month ahead of me.
I know I'm going to have a great time in London. I know that. I know that I'm extremely fortunate to have been given this opportunity, to be able to do my dissertation research in the most amazing lab imaginable, the libraries and archives of Great Britain. But part of me hates that I have to leave right now, when my family life is in chaos and I have not yet mentally or emotionally transitioned to the idea that I will be in a foreign country for the next month and communication with people here will be limited. Another part of me is glad to be escaping the drama.
If you want to follow my journey, I've started a Tumblr account specifically for the posting of pictures and short anecdotes about my trip. You can find it here. The plan is to post something everyday, even if it's just a picture or a quote I discovered. Despite my best intentions, I've realized that if I tell myself I'll blog about my trips, it rarely happens, and this is one experience that I want to ensure I don't forget. Posting a picture a day seems better than not posting anything at all.
I'll also be reading your blogs and checking in sporadically, and hopefully doing a little bit of writing. This past week of family drama, while terrible for me emotionally, has actually fueled a lot of great ideas in my writing. I've had a couple of breakthroughs with The Novel thanks to it, so I guess something good came out of all of it. It certainly didn't feel like it at the time, but I'm sure I will emerge from this experience a stronger, more independent person, and that's never a bad thing in my book.
It's been a pretty crazy day here in Alabama, which I'm sure you're aware of if you've been watching the news. Major tornadoes in Tuscaloosa and Birmingham. At least 58 dead. One of my former students from back when I taught high school is currently missing after her apartment complex was hit, so please keep Loryn Brown in your thoughts. I'm terrible when it comes to keeping up with weather forecasts (I basically just look outside and dress according to the current conditions), so I've been depending on my Facebook friends all day to keep me posted. Some of them have suffered damage to their homes or spent hours hunkered down in a basement, bathtub, or, in a couple of cases, city hall, and the worst hasn't even hit where I live yet. The first rains began falling just a couple of hours ago, and we're expecting the worst part of the storm to hit here in the next few hours. The lights have flickered a few times, it's thundering right now, and the sirens went off once, but I know this is only just the beginning, so I'm not going to bed anytime soon. Luckily, classes ended yesterday and tomorrow is a dead day, so I don't have to get up especially early.
In ROW80-related news, I posted my weekly writing blog yesterday. It's on the importance of setting to fiction and includes a report and pictures from my recent trip to Forks, Washington. Check it out here if you're interested. My book-of-the-week is Brenna Yovanoff's The Replacement, and I'll post a review of it this weekend after I finish it. Because I encouraged everyone to do some setting-related exercises in yesterday's blog, I decided I better take my own advice, and I've been doing some fun world-building for The Novel. I'm terrible at any kind of drawing, but I always enjoy making floor plans, street grids, maps, stuff like that when I'm world-building, so I'm working on some of that kind of stuff right now. It helps to see how different places in the story relate to one another spatially. I'm thinking of doing a (much shorter) follow-up to the setting post soon and including some of the floor plans I've drawn.
Hope everyone else is having a good week. Stay safe, and happy writing!
Like many children, when I was in elementary school I learned the five basic elements of fiction: setting, characters, plot, theme, and conflict. In every English class I've taken (or taught) since then, I've spent considerable time discussing plot and character development and analyzing themes and sources of conflict, but for some reason setting almost always gets neglected. Perhaps because setting so often gets dismissed as "description" (all those paragraphs describing rooms, building exteriors, tropical sunsets, rainstorms), we feel like there is less to talk about when it comes to setting. Take The Tempest, for example. How interesting is it to talk about Prospero's island, about which we have only a few competing descriptions, when you can talk about the colonization of the island and the enslavement of Caliban, the representation of slavery and savagery, Gonzalo's idea of utopia, the development of Prospero's character, and the role of the Miranda/Ferdinand love plot. Even the structure of the play makes for more interesting discussion than setting, right?
Olympic National Park--rain forest trail to Marymere Falls. |
Unfortunately, I haven't gotten any writing done this weekend--one, because I've been grading World Lit papers that I have to give back to my students Tuesday, and two, because I've been obsessively reading Emma Donoghue's Booker-short-listed novel Room all weekend.
I'll admit that before I began reading this novel, I was a bit skeptical. Even though it appeared on tons of "Best of..." lists last year, I didn't think I would enjoy it very much. First of all, I'm not a big fan of captivity narratives, especially ones involving rape. The premise of the novel--a kidnapped woman is entrapped in a room for seven years and repeatedly raped over the course of that time, birthing a son who is her only companion--sounds far drearier than the book Donoghue writes, in part because the story is not told from the woman's point of view, but from the point of view of her five-year-old son. The resulting book isn't so much a captivity narrative as it is a touching story of growing up completely shut out from the rest of the world, of beginning to understand "reality," of exploring the mother-child relationship in this most traumatic of circumstances.
What drew me to the novel, then, was the very question it raised about the nature of reality, about the consequence of waking someone to the knowledge that there is a whole world outside their own experiences that they never knew existed. It's a question I'm very interested in in my own writing and especially in the novel I'm currently working on--and in some way, a question I'm exploring in every story I write. ***Slight Spoilers*** For Jack, Donoghue's narrator in Room, Room is all he knows. His only companions are his mother and his friends, Bed, Meltedy Spoon, Rug, Wardrobe, etc. For him, there are only two realities, what's "real" (what's in the room) and what's TV (what's fantasy or imaginary). His awakening to the knowledge that what's TV is also what's real, that the children on TV, the police cars and firetrucks, are also real, is skillfully and poignantly rendered. Donoghue deserves all the accolades she's getting.
I'll admit that for the first 10% of the novel, I still wasn't sure if I was going to like the book. The narrating voice is a five-year-old's, and although I usually like adult novels told from this sort of alternative point of view, I wasn't sure if I bought Jack's voice at first. I've spent considerable time with two- to four-year-old boys these past few years (mostly friends' children and my fiancé's two totally awesome, genius nephews), and when I tried to imagine any of them speaking the way Jack did, I couldn't. He simultaneously seemed verbally inferior and superior to every child I knew that age. At times, he thought in a highly developed way, but then he'd also mess up conjugating simple verbs or reordering sentences in a way I felt he should have mastered much earlier, especially considering how much time his mother spends teaching him vocabulary and reading. As I read more and got to know Jack better, though, I realized how judgmental that was. I realized Jack's quirks were not some failure on the writer's part, but were in fact part of what made him special, the same way that all kids have certain things that it takes them longer to master than it takes others. His turning every object into a proper noun (Room, Rug, Remote), which initially grated, eventually became endearing and understandable. I loved every character in this book (other than Old Nick, the kidnapper), probably more because of their flaws. They all felt so extremely real to me, so elegantly and insightfully drawn. The dialogue (and more importantly, what's not being said) was so well done, so subtle, nuanced, honest, believable. And I have to say the last few pages, when I was wondering how in the world the story was going to end, were handled so beautifully, so brilliantly, so perfectly.
So if you're looking for a new novel to check out, and nothing I've said so far has turned you off, you should definitely pick up Room. If you want to read a little bit more about it first, I suggest this article.
One last thing about the author: one of the main reasons I wanted to read this book was because Donoghue is also an academic, although I don't think she's a "practicing" one right now. (Meaning, she isn't a professor at a university, and I don't think she's currently doing academic research or writing.) She holds a Ph.D. in eighteenth-century literature, which is also my field, and on more than one occasion I've been doing research and needed to cite an article or book she or her partner, Chris Roulston, an associate professor in women's studies, wrote. So I felt like I had this whole other connection to her before I ever read Room, and I was really curious to see what kind of fiction writer she was. And she didn't disappoint. I will definitely check out her other novels now.
I hope you guys had a more productive writing weekend than I did. Even if I didn't write a single word, though, I'm feeling inspired and got to read a book I loved, so the weekend wasn't a total waste. :-)
I fully intended to make up for my missed Sunday post by writing an extra-long post today, to talk about hitting (and missing) last week's goals and to review my most recent book-of-the-week, Kirsten Hubbard's Like Mandarin, but the fact is I'm tired. Exhausted even. Wedding planning is taking over my life, even though I feel like I've gotten so little accomplished. I spent all day Saturday dress shopping with my mom, aunt, cousin, and sister, and although I now have an excellent idea of what kinds of dresses I don't like, I'm no closer to finding "the one." The good news is that I've booked my venues and officiant, and I'm signing the contract with my photographer this week, but the bad news is I have to go wedding dress shopping again next week. :-( (The good news is I'm going with one of my best friends/college roommate, though, and I haven't seen her in awhile, so yay for reunions!)
On top of all the wedding drama, the end of the semester is close at hand, and I spent the last two days conferencing with students. Conferencing always takes a lot out of me, even when I'm really engaged with my students' projects, and I've come home the past two days just wanting to crash into bed and sleep the evening away. So instead of boring you with a recap of last week's ROWing and talking about all the writing I haven't done lately, I'm going to leave you today with a promise of posts to look forward to between now and the next ROW80 check-in:
Week two of ROW80 is going much better than week one, for sure. I've already posted my weekly writing-related blog post. (It's on rejection and has already sparked some interesting discussion on Facebook.) I'm more than half-way through my book for the week (Kirsten Hubbard's Like Mandarin), and I've already submitted one of my stories five places this week. I'm making (slow) progress revising one of the short stories from my master's thesis into a piece of flash fiction. Boiling a ten-page story down to less than 750 words certainly is a challenge, but it's been fun, and I'm hoping to finish it up this weekend so I can start sending it out next week.
I'm not sure how much progress I'll make on my other goals this week because I'm going to visit my parents for the weekend. (And going wedding dress shopping! Oh, the horror! The horror!) Their home internet is always iffy, so I hope to be able to post my Sunday ROW80 update, but if I can't, I'll be working hard to give you a good update next week.
It seems like a lot of you draw as much of your writing inspiration from music as I do, so I'll leave you today with a couple of songs I've been playing on loop when writing a big scene in The Novel--Florence + the Machine's "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)" and "Cosmic Love." Hope you're all having a fantastic, super-productive week!
When I was thirteen, I submitted my first story for publication. After months of reading about cover letters, SASEs, and proper manuscript formatting, I finally polished my letter, printed a clean copy of my short story, bought the proper envelopes, and paid $0.78 to send my baby to the New York offices of Seventeen. Now, of course, I understand how crazy it was for a thirteen-year-old to submit a story to Seventeen, but at the time I didn't know much about publishing and Seventeen was one of the few places I knew of that published YA short stories. I'm sure you can guess what happened next.
A few months later, I got my first rejection letter. At the time I remember thinking how cold the letter was, how impersonal. Not only was there nothing about me or my story in the letter (a simple "Dear Lacy, Thanks for sending 'A New Pain'" would have sufficed), but it wasn't even properly signed. Despite the fact that I'd gone to the trouble to find the appropriate editor's name and address my cover letter to her, the rejection letter was merely signed "Fiction Editor."
A few weeks ago when I was visiting my parents, I dug that old envelope and rejection letter out of the stack of papers my mother has been begging me to recycle for years. Yes, I kept it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've never intentionally thrown away a rejection, and I've gotten quite a few over the years. Because I've made more of an effort to publish recently, that number has swelled in the past few months. And the more rejections I read, the more I appreciate the simple dismissal I received years ago from the unnamed fiction editor at Seventeen.
Here is the Seventeen rejection, verbatim:
Thank you for your interest in seventeen. We're always happy to consider fiction submissions.
Your manuscript has received thoughtful consideration. Unfortunately, it doesn't quite suit our editorial needs.
Again, thanks for thinking of us.
-Fiction Editor
Aside from the lack of salutation and the anonymous signature, this, to me, is a perfect rejection letter. When I get rejections like this now, they barely faze me. I read them, write "no" and the date under the story title on my little tracking chart, and promptly forget about them. I've developed a pretty thick skin, and these kinds of rejections don't make much of an impression anymore. But occasionally, I still get rejections that prick, that sting, that I cannot dismiss as simply as I can dismiss the one from Seventeen. For all you editors out there who don't want to discourage writers from ever submitting to (or reading) your journal again, here are a couple of things not to do in a rejection letter:
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