I'm driving in my car, I turn on the radio

Random quote of the day:


“Most of American life is driving somewhere and then driving back wondering why the hell you went."

—John Updike, quoted in Desirable God?: Our Fascination with Images, Idols, and New Deities by Roger Burggraeve








( Illustrated version. )

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

My epitaph

An anthology editor recently told me, "While you do have a distinctive voice, the pacing is too slow and the story is bogged down by exposition."

Another anthology editor said of the same story, "Both editors felt it was a very strong story, but [it didn't quite fit our specifications]. We do feel it's a story that should easily sell to the appropriate market."

And so it goes.

While the contradictory nature of these statements leaves me in something of a quandary (and it is so not the first time with this story—the reactions have been all over the map), and ultimately I have to follow my instincts, I appreciate without reservation when editors take the time to give me feedback. They are busy folks and do not generally have time for it, so it is not something I ever take lightly. And as for those instincts? This is not the first time I have been told I bog stories down with exposition. I am inclined to take this latest piece of advice quite seriously.

I often find myself doubting my instincts more than I trust them when it comes to short stories. Short stories mostly leave me in a state of deep bewilderment, sure that I just don't get the mystical secret of writing them. Have I cut too much? Have I cut too little? Will the reader get the subtle layering? Or is that a luxury I can't afford in such tight space? They're all mini-novels to me—and the one thing I'm sure of is that short stories are not mini-novels. The last time I read this particular story (well over a year ago) I thought it as tight as I could possibly make it. Recently, when I read it again I thought, "There's definitely some loose skin here." But in the rush to send it, I foolishly decided to ignore my instincts. Because why should I? I don't know "the secret."

Thus endeth the lesson.

Time is the one sure friend a writer can count on. Time to write and make mistakes and learn from them and write some more and time (oh most important of all) to put something away and gain perspective on it. If I fail to heed the lessons that time gives, I am a foolish poppet indeed, doomed to repeat the same mistakes ad nauseam and never progress beyond my latest flat plateau. That's no way to learn the secret—which is, of course, no secret at all. It's called "a learning curve."