SATISFIED OR DISAPPOINTED?

 I picked this question from Karen Jones’ post on the list of questions she’d like to ask writers:

 If you have written your book, do you feel satisfied with it or discouraged and disappointed?

 

I know creative people who are almost always let down by their output. Blisters! I also have heard, repeatedly, that it’s the mark of the great ones to be unhappy with their performance, for what they aim for is many notches above the result.

 

I’m not one of those tortured souls. This makes me conclude I’m decidedly not one of the greats. I am deeply satisfied at the end of each first draft, when the words THE END would be added, had I been trained in the days when writers typed “The End” at, ahmm, the end.

 

I’m satisfied that I did it. That I brought it home. That I told a complete story. It’s a kind of a high I can’t imagine getting from a drug or libation.

 

Depending on the story and also the length of the journey first drafting took, this high lasts from a few days to a few weeks.

 

It’s upon tackling it again, in subsequent drafts, that the cracks begin and get wider as I go. It’s beta readers’ feedback, pointing out inconsistencies, holes and the most absurd typos, that doubts and disappointment take hold.

 

The fixing journey is a long one, and I don’t enjoy it. But there, too, I have mini-highs when I patch the potholes.

 

So, my answer is that writing a book is a mix of joy, satisfaction, and also discouragement and disappointment. But above all, I have enormous respect for myself and all who embark on the creative train and stick with it to its destination.

 

~THE END*~

*Not really

THAT THING CALLED “AUTHOR PLATFORM”

 

plat·form

/ˈplatˌfôrm/

noun

1.      a raised level surface on which people or things can stand.

"there are viewing platforms where visitors may gape at the chasm"

 

2.      the declared policy of a political party or group.

"seeking election on a platform of low taxes"

 

Well, then.

 

Authors, it is said, need a platform. In authorly terms this means expertise that is already recognized as such by (preferably) a goodly number of people. It’s that thing that makes for a virtual “raised level” on which the author stands above the minions.

Turns out, it is less relevant (some say not relevant) for writers of fiction. It is essential for non-fiction, as a sort of Bona fide to be writing on a subject. In fiction, personal experience of the sort the plot conveys would serve the same function, and the platform in either case is an established public identity that attests to such and is known and followed by many.

 

I like this post because of its original title (later changed by Jane Friedman): “I’D RATHER BE WRITING.”

That, precisely.

 

I know a prolific and competent writer (of YA fiction) who had grown her blog to have thousands of followers and same for her Instagram account, who has all but abandoned both.

 

She’d rather be writing, and her platform never sold her books. Her books sold her books.

 

Adding: most good writers are not great marketers. This is what traditional publishers are supposed to be and do.

 

A writer should do what they can, and most of that consists of writing and writing better.

Signed,

Platformless Me

HOME IMPROVEMENTS, ANYONE?

 How do you deal with the (frankly endless) home improvement challenges?

Warning, this is one big (pictorial) KVETCH.

So, once upon a time it was thus:

Same kitchen corner, now:

May it (soon) return to sanity, our style~~~

August 19th, 2024

Edited to add:

What a difference a week makes⌛:

🎉🎉🎉

JUST. DO. IT.

 Yup. That^

I have friends who talked about writing. Not about “being a writer” but about the specific stories they were going to write.

 

They talked and elaborated. They considered some of the details they’d include. They deliberated about what point of view to use, where to set it, and how to end.

 

Once, I got a breathless call because my friend with a story to tell just had an epiphany regarding the story. It wouldn’t be a straight-out story, but a fable, using animals. This wasn’t for children, but an allegory à la Orwell’s Animal House.

“Great,” I said. “Now start writing.”

 

Another friend said her book required the permission of someone mentioned in it, though that someone was but a minor character that could be omitted if permission wasn’t granted.

“Great,” I said. “Now start writing.”

 

A third friend let me know he was bogged down with research on some of his story’s elements. It could take weeks or months to complete his self-assigned reading.

“Great,” I said. “When will you start writing?”

 

To the best of my knowledge, none have so much as written the first sentence.

 

I never talk about my stories until after I completed the second draft. Talking (and talking, and more talking) releases the creative gasses that float the writing balloon. Then, the impetus to sit and write evaporates and becomes the sad spectacle of a deflated balloon lying on its side, abandoned where no one, not even the would-be writer, would ever see it.