I started a writing class yesterday. (Just one in a series of self-improvement-y things I’m doing now, including but not limited to career counseling, piano lessons, and learning to dig people out of avalanches).

Writing classes have always inspired me in times of need. Back in 1996, when I was first emerging from Phase I of spoiled upper-middle-class white girl adulthood – that is, getting jobs I actually liked, earning money instead of borrowing from Dad, finally adjusting to the idea that I had to support myself etc etc –I took a fiction-writing class at the University of Washington.

The stuff I wrote wasn’t really good, per se (although it had its moments) but I learned lots of stuff, the most important being, my imagination actually still worked. (Those of who you’ve read my novel have heard me yak on about this discovery phase ad nauseum so you can skip the part of this entry where I talk about Oprah.) That class also got me writing in a semi-regular way.

Flash-forward to ten years and twenty boyfriends later. I look much the same, although thinner, with more gray hair (artfully colored over), and am now a glamorous published novelist struggling with her second book — sure to be the breakout novel!–and, as usual, decide to take a writing class to help me get over the hump. This one is called “Reading for Novelists,” and we are basically supposed to find our favorite authors and imitate them. Or rather, study their craft, and figure out what they’re doing that makes their writing so good, then do it ourselves.

But never mind about that for now. Last night the teacher (the talented Waverly Fitzgerald) said writers were usually divided into two camps: one who seek a plot for their characters and those who seek characters for their plot. (Traditionally, the former is considered the more “literary” and less formulaic way to write). During this last month or so in which I’ve gotten 1)all fired up about my latest novel idea then 2)deflated about my latest novel idea, I thought all along that I was being so character-driven, that what I had was a bunch of characters that I was trying to find a plot for. What I realized today was that this is true for the minor characters. In fact, it was in imagining those minor characters (i.e. the World of Warcraft playing geek who lives in his mother’s basement) that got me excited about this book.

HOWEVER. The protagonist is totally unclear to me, and that, I realize is because she is just a vehicle of the plot. That’s why I can’t figure out who the hell she is: I came up with this plot first and now I have to create this character for it. HMM. So should I throw away my rather appealing plot and instead try to find an appealing character? Or keep on bashing around for a character who will serve my plot?

Yawn. I know it’s boring when writers go on and on about their characters and their “struggles” with them. So I’ll shut up. You don’t care. You just wanna see the next damn book. (Or hear about who I’m making out with or which unpleasant ex-fling sighting I had yesterday, during which we pretended not to see each other though we totally did. OK fine, the Construction Worker).

Oh. And Oprah hasn’t f*cking called yet.

xo
Rebecca

Being a writer is a sucky profession, I don’t recommend it to anyone.

Parts of it are good. When I had my contract in hand, life was grand. (I say, in retrospect). My publishing career was a blank slate, money was rolling in, and I had a deadline. I could say “my first novel is coming out in May,” and everyone would prostrate at my feet.

Now, well…the novel is out, and like most first books, sales are slow, the germination of the next book is even slower, and supporting myself is a dreary task. Sometimes it’s hard to maintain a positive attitude is all’s I’m saying. If you can, be a computer programmer! Or a dentist! Or an acccountant! Something well-paid and regular that doesn’t require you to lay your heart on the line for a fickle public.

Oh OK, I’ll shut up now. I know how lucky I am to have published a novel. I’ve just been drifiting ever since I finished BreakupBabe.

But that’s life, isn’t it? An endless cycle of achievement, drifting, love, loss. Winter, spring, summer, fall. You want the sun to shine all the time, but it doesn’t.

In other news, I did apply to be on Oprah! Apparently an upcoming show will have the theme “Desperately Single” and while my pride caused me to hesistate at such an opportunity, common sense soon took over. Yes! I am Desperately Single! And I Desperately Want to Promote my Book on Oprah!

I also entered my book in the Lulu Blooker Prize competition, for the best book based on a blog. I was a bit dismayed to see there is actually lots of competition. In fact, I see I’m competing with Jessica Cutler and The Washingtonienne, which is tres annoying. I haven’t actually read her book but I refuse to believe it’s better than mine! Oh hell, maybe it is. Jessica Cutler is probably a literary genius compared to me and I wish her all the success in the world. There, see! I’m not jealous or bitter!

OK I see I have hardly a positive thing to say today. I will end with a photo, showing my book on a reader’s bookshelf in illustrious company. Thanks to Kelly for the picture!

Things have died down a bit in the book publicity and promotion world. I did a flurry of things in the winter and fall, and now my 15 minutes is up and I am hard at work on the next book.

I occasionally get asked how my life has “changed” since becoming an author and the truth is, it hasn’t much. I get more email from strangers now, which I love, because the people who are prompted to write are the ones who liked my book, and so they usually shower me with praise. Just today, I got this email from Christina, and here’s what she said about my book:

It is fantastic. (I read it in three sittings!) I loved how you interspersed blog entries with narrative prose. It served as a constant reminder that blog entries only capture part of the story and don’t always account for everything that is going on in our lives. I loved that Rachel, while she was a heroine you wanted to ultimately see get the guy, also had some very real flaws other than bad hair or a big ass. Too many times in stories, the flaws in female characters are based on physical characteristics, so it was refreshing to see issues other than beauty as the central conflict.

Complete strangers flirt with me a bit more via e-mail, though not nearly as much as you might think. People from my past come out of the woodwork, sometimes to say “congratulations” other times to kindly remind me that I broke their heart way-back-when and just to remember that when I write whiny novels about getting my own heart broken.

I do get to walk into bookstores and see my own book. Most of the time this makes me more anxious than excited, sad to say. My thoughts run along these lines: Why do they have so many copies? It means they’re not selling! Why don’t they have any copies? Have they returned them all?! Why did they remove the little “Staff Picks” blurb? They must hate my book now! Etc. etc.

I get to tell people I’m a “writer” and not feel like a total poser. (Although part of me wonders, how long can I say this? If it gets to be ten years from now and I still haven’t published another thing, can I still say I’m a writer?). I can sometimes justify self-absorbed or stunningly absent-minded behavior by telling myself I’m a writer; my mind is on more important things. (Like, why is my hair so flat? )

I do have the satisfaction of knowing I achieved my life’s #1 dream and that is pretty amazing. At least, when I am calm enough to appreciate it. Though it is a bit hard to figure out what to do after that. Really, you just go on living. Working, cleaning clothes off your bed, flinging yourself into ill-fated romances, flossing, worrying about horrible diseases, and trying to get through the day.

Glamorous, truly.

On that note, happy new year everyone, and may you achieve some of your own life dreams. Or at least may you keep your bed clean, and not get any cavities or broken hearts.

x0
Rebecca