Murdoch met but not mastered

I think I may have mentioned here that some years ago I set myself the task of reading all twenty-six of Iris Murdoch’s novels in the order they were published. I recently completed that journey by finishing Jackson’s Dilemma (for the second time). I could search my paper journals to find the date I began this ambition, but suffice to say that I’ve been at it for the better part of a decade.

I hadn’t started reading her novels in sequence. I’d started with The Sea, The Sea, which had won her the Booker Prize. And then I’d read Jackson’s Dilemma for the first time. Somewhere in there I’d picked up The Sacred and Profane Love Machine. And my book discussion group took up two of her novels (as a favor to me, I think), before I settled into the plan. (When I came to the already-read novels, I read them again.)

I’ve always been fascinated and impressed by the fact that many people have devoted their professional careers (and even their whole adult lives) to understanding novels like Moby Dick. I respect the rigor and focus, and perhaps most of all, the purpose this gives such serious people. And so I decided I would devote myself to understanding the fiction of Iris Murdoch. (She’s also written a number of books about philosophy, and I’ve read one — and even understood parts of it — but I think that would be spreading myself a little too thin. Okay, a lot too thin.) I don’t expect to become a respected scholar who will publish insightful exegeses of her stories. I’m really only doing this for personal satisfaction and to keep myself out of the bars.

Although I got some of her novels from the library, through the years I had probably owned most of them, at least while I was reading them. But I eventually gave those away. (You will know from some of my older posts here that I donate my finished books to an underfunded rural library.) It was only late in the twenty-six novel read through that I realized I wanted to be a student of her works, so it was only in the last year or so that I began keeping my copies of her novels. I think that amounts to five of them. Thus I need to rebuild my collection.

And so I’m going to buy her first novel, Under the Net, now. And what will I do with it. Why read it again, of course. I think I’m on that twenty-six stop journey again. (Plus there are quite a few nonfiction works about Iris Murdoch and her novels. I’m rubbing my hands together with glee.)

Do you do anything like this? Or maybe you’re thinking that I need to get my medication adjusted.

More chatter about synergy

I think my Beatles analogy went a little astray in my recent synergy post. The point I was trying to make — and seemed to have missed — is that I think the quality of the music they made as individuals diminished because they did not have the synergy on their own that they had as a group. I’m not referring to the collaborative creation of any given Beatles song but the intangible, uplifting influence of simply being part of a group of creative, like-minded people.

Similarly, I’m not suggesting that creative writing needs to be collaborative (though it can be). Rather, I’m saying that I think for many writers, the solitary act of writing can be enhanced simply by having a peer group of creative, like-minded people.

I’ve had a number of email conversations with fellow writers and even protracted comment threads on several writers’ blogs, but these tend to be sporadic and ad hoc. They’re not really what I think I’m after. Nor have I found writer forums to be on the mark, at least for my needs.

If I could find such a group, what might take place? Banter and badinage, palaver and persiflage! Maybe discussions about the intricacies of a certain word processor. Or the change in staff at a certain publication. Or a newly discovered writer who should be shared. Or talk about the weather. Or a favorite brand of beer. Just about anything, including possibly, though not in any obligatory way, the work on a piece of fiction one member struggles with. I see such a group as a retreat, a pressure valve, an insiders club. Not a workshop necessarily. Maybe more of a social club.

I don’t know. I think I’m chasing phantoms.

Thanks, but no thanks

I received a rejection letter this week for “The Respite Room.” (You’ll probably remember that that story was accepted by Little Patuxtent Review and should appear in print next week.) The rejection came from phati’tude Literary Magazine for a simultaneous submission I had made of that story back in November.

I don’t recall why I had thought that phati’tude might be a possible market for my story. I’m sure I found the publication on Duotrope’s Digest, and perhaps part of the description there made me consider it. As I said, I don’t recall the specifics, but I must have felt some inclination.

Anyway, when the story was accepted by the Little Patuxent Review I sent an email to phati’tude to withdraw my submission. I promptly received an automated response thanking me for my submission. It wasn’t a submission, of course, but the substance of my email never made it past their firewall.

The formal (though automated) rejection from phati’tude included two attachments, which were further form letters. The email described the nature of the next edition, which, it turns out, is nothing at all suitable for the type of story I had sent.

But the point of my rant is that the magazine had never made clear on its website the nature of their upcoming edition. I obviously would not have submitted that story if I had known. And the fact that my withdrawal email met with an automated and inappropriate response tells me that there is something broken there.

It’s a buyer’s market though. The magazines know there are far more stories than there are places for them. I know that a rejection can’t always be personal, but . . .

Finnegans Deciphered, and collected

I’ve passed an important milestone on my journey to complete my novel-in-progress, Finnegans Deciphered. I consolidated all of the chapters into a single document.

For me, that’s a sign that the major writing is now finished. All that remains is tinkering and, of course, wholesale editing and possibly rewriting and hair-pulling frustration and unfocused anguish. But at least the hard part is now behind me!

The final document has swelled by four hundred words since I did my first count of the “finished” novel. That’s the result of my wedging in of late revelations and plot needs, but it’s not the four thousand or fourteen thousand more words I’d feel more comfortable with. The novel barely qualifies as a novel, at least by commonly accepted word-count standards. But I won’t concern myself with such outside standards. I have to be true to the tale I have to tell. Plus, it’s possible that as I do more comprehensive read throughs, I’ll develop this or that plot point or character quirk or even monkey around with the tone and I’ll find more words that need to be said. Or not.

It’s come to seventeen chapters, and seventeen happens to be a significant number in the plot. Nonetheless, I suspect one of those chapters will be split in twain (a possible location for more words to add to the count), so that coincidence of chapter count and plot point won’t survive. That might have been fun to keep, but it also seems a bit twee. (Also, it’s only coincidence that I posted this entry on the 17th of the month.)

So now I’m at the point where I have a whole document “in hand.” That will make for more difficulty finding given places in it that I want to address, but I think I know the story well enough now to be able to navigate it. Perhaps I will print (on paper!) the whole thing and have it literally “in hand.” Then I could carry it and a red pencil to my cabin in the woods for a weekend read-through session. Sounds lovely.

The need for synergy

I’ve always thought that the Beatles were a perfect example of the process of synergy. That is, their whole was greater than the sum of their parts. Or put another way, the music they made together was far better (for the most part) than what they later made as individuals.

I think their creativity flourished in that collaborative environment in a way that it didn’t when they were on their own. They benefited from being with each other, bouncing ideas around, supplementing, adjusting, correcting, enhancing, revising, improving, perfecting. Being immersed in such a pool of talent must have been a beneficial challenge to each individual effort, even if overt contributions to a given song might not have been there (or at least not have been obvious). Writing lyrics or composing melody, while it might have been done alone in a quiet room, must have been nonetheless influenced by the knowledge that a group of musical geniuses were then going to take it and make it even better. Talent begat talent. The environment fostered best efforts. Kindred spirits fed creative spirits. I think it shows in the music they made together, and I think such a thing can foster the otherwise solitary act of creative writing as well.

I’m not talking about editing or workshopping or networking, though those can, undoubtedly, improve a piece of fiction in direct and overt ways. What I am trying to understand, rather, is something more like community, the idea that a solitary worker like a writer can benefit from having a group of like-minded colleagues who can influence and improve the writing merely by existing as colleagues. They might talk shop, or they might rigorously not talk shop, yet by being a community, they somehow foster or challenge or simply reassure each other to achieve something better than each could do alone in a garret in the wee small hours of the morning when the house is quiet and the ferment of ideas boiling in the brain is manageable.

Such an influence is intangible, but I think it can exist. I don’t know if it is the comfort of knowing you’re not alone in this crazy thing you’re trying to do. Or if it’s the knowledge that a group of people you respect (or maybe even just an individual you respect) will see what you do. Or if it is the feeling of being a peer in a creative swarm. Or the challenge to do better. Or the fear of failure. Or if there is some other subtle influence at work. But whatever it is, I suspect that being part of a culture of creativity can affect your own creativity for the better.

I think that’s part of why we read each other’s blogs (or why I do anyway). I don’t think I’m out there looking for writing tips or instructions. (In fact, when I come across such how-to blogs, I tend not to go back to them.) Rather, I think I’m just looking for kindred spirits, attempting to build and be part of a community of people who are also struggling in their own ways with words and ideas. I’m not trying to learn how to do it but more why to do it. Or why to keep doing it. Does that make sense? (Obviously I don’t have this fully figured out or I’d be expressing my point here better.)

I have tried to find such groups in my own town, groups that I could sit with once or twice a month and talk shop, or rigorously not talk shop. Groups in which I could immerse myself solely for the purpose of I-don’t-quite-know-what but that I think I want to have. Sadly, I haven’t found such a group, and I think the kind of thing I want (or need) isn’t going to advertise and would probably only exist spontaneously rather than in some organized and dedicated way.

Here in Kansas City we have an organization called The Writers Place. It “exists” in an old, castle-like mansion down in the city (I am adrift in the far suburbs), and it hosts readings and workshops and classes and suchlike and would seem to be exactly what I’m after. But it hasn’t worked out that way for me. I’ve dabbled in participation there but for a number of reasons it hasn’t been what I sought. I’ve enjoyed the readings I’ve attended there, but it’s a long drive each way for me, and the benefits of the socializing and ambience tend to dissipate from the “struggle” of getting to and fro. I’ve taken a couple of their classes, and while they have undoubtedly helped me in some way, I don’t think they’re the kind of synergy I’m after either. I’d love to go there with my laptop and sit in their well-stocked, nicely appointed library and just tap away at the keyboard, but, as I said, it’s an expedition to get there, and the place is in a “rough” part of town, so they can’t leave the door unlocked for such spontaneous visits. I’d have to go during open hours, which aren’t all that convenient for me. And so the bother of it all robs it of whatever intangible frisson I’m trying to capture.

I’ve also tried to find “organized and dedicated” writers groups in town, but I haven’t had much luck with that. To be sure, a few exist, but they seem to be more about writing instruction than about community. Some are genre specific; one I’ve found is focused on speculative fiction, another on romance writing, another on devotional writing. These are worthy endeavors, certainly, but they’re not my endeavors. A few seem to be comprised of hustlers or wannabes or (gag) “mentors,” and I admit there is a need for such groups. But that’s not my need. As I said, I suspect that if such a group as I’m seeking does exist, it’s casual and known only by word of mouth, and it may be ephemeral. Perhaps my ideal group dissolved last week and I missed out.

Some of you know that I’ve had a story accepted by The Little Patuxent Review, based in Maryland. I’m proud of the story and of the caliber of the publication. There will be a launch party later this month for the edition I’m in, and I anguished over attending. I was invited to go to Maryland and do a reading then discuss it with the guests at the party, and I thought that such hob-knobbing would be both gratifying and good for me in the synergistic sense I’m babbling about here. But, again, the time and trouble and expense of doing so have thwarted me. I’d have to take off work (which is appealing, of course), purchase plane tickets (not cheap), find a place to stay (I have a few friends in Maryland), buy a new tweed jacket (all serious writers have tweed jackets), and screw up the courage to actually read in public and try to hold forth as an intelligent, creative person (when deep inside I feel like a fraud). And then the event would be over, and I would fly back to the Midwest, likely never to see or talk to these people again, and the community I want to find would be gone (for it never would have developed). So that avenue will go unexplored.

I keep trying to find this elusive, synergistic group. I tell myself that I would benefit from it, and I tell myself that it must exist out there. But I also doubt both propositions. I am, in the end, a very private person. Perhaps that has to do with some insecurity. Or perhaps it’s the result of growing up in a very large family where privacy didn’t seem to exist. So I wonder if I would mesh with such a group if ever I could find it. Would I rise to the challenge I think I want it to provide? Or would I be intimidated by my peers? Or would I respect my peers? Or would I really want the bother of committing to being part of a group? I’m in a book discussion group (we’re embarking on a four-month discussion of The Sound and the Fury next month), and after each session I vow I’m never returning; the level of discussion is way over my head. I feel as though I’m the town idiot who is allowed in as some sort of community service project. And I wonder if a writing group would leave me feeling the same way. Though on reflection, maybe I need to feel that way to improve my writing.

So I stumble along, writing alone in the wee small hours of the morning in my repurposed spare bedroom, with the dogs scratching at the closed door and the life outside of my writing mind waiting, sometimes impatiently, for my return while I go round and round trying to grab the brass ring.

Your advice, suggestions, tips, and commiserations are most welcome.

Saturday, 12:30 a.m.

Saturday, 12:30 a.m. I cannot sleep. The rest of the weekend now likley lays in ruins before me, but here I sit, hoping to put my insomnia to use by stringing more words together.

“Velvet Elvis” info you can ignore

This is a self-serving post that you can ignore if you want.

You may recall that my story “Velvet Elvis” appeared at Bartleby Snopes in December. The magazine runs a vote for readers to select the best story of the eight they host each month. The winner of the vote is then given a spot in the publication’s semi-annual print edition. (Call me old fashioned, but I still like to see my stories on paper.)

Because my story had been selected an Editor’s Choice, it made the cut and will appear in the print edition, regardless of its outcome in the voting. When the voting opened, my story raced into the lead, which was gratifying but unnecessary since I didn’t need to win. Soon after that, though, another story, “My Father and Jackson Pollock” by Wesley McMasters surged past and remained well ahead for the duration of the voting. That’s fine with me. I was disappointed, though, that my choice hadn’t done better in the voting. I had voted for “Reynaldo’s Solutions” by Shaun Hayes, which I thought was fun and well done. In the end, this story came in third (after mine in second and McMasters’ in first).

Recently the editor sent me the proof of the print edition. The entire print edition. The entire eight megabyte print edition. I read through my story to find any errors (none), and I flitted through other parts looking for any errors I could find (a few). But I was happy to see that “Reynaldo’s Solution” has also made the cut. It will appear in the print edition. I don’t know how the editors make their choices in cases like this, but I don’t care. I’m pleased that Mr. Hayes will see his worthy story in print (on paper).

Further rumination:

What if my story hadn’t been selected as an Editor’s Choice? Would I have organized a get-out-the-vote campaign? Would I have wrung my hands as I watched the votes come in for the various stories? Would I have been truly sad when I didn’t win the popular vote? The better part of me says that the story exists on its own and doesn’t need validation from anyone. The other part of me, I suspect, would have other things to say.

Would you pay to submit a story?

Many publications are now charging a fee to submit stories for consideration. This is not news, and I expect the trend to continue. Though there has been some backlash — at least one writer I know has said she will never pay a fee to submit a story — I don’t think the objection is strong enough to stop the trend.

In part I think this lack of a backlash is due to the fee-charging apparently occurring mostly in the high-end literary journals. Many writers would love to see their work appear in such respected rags, so they’re either willing to pay the fee for the chance, or they’re willing to be less vocal in their objection lest they offend the almighty lit mag, at least for now. It’s a seller’s market when you consider that the publication is selling you the chance to be published.

I’m not sure how I feel. To begin with, I’m not sure my stories would ever have a chance at publication in the really high-end journals anyway, so why would I want to pay for the privilege of getting a rejection that I fully expect to receive anyway. Conversely, it may be that such fees will scare away so many submissions that my work won’t get lost in the sea of documents these places face each day. (I still doubt that my stories would have a chance in some of those places.)

I can remember a couple of years ago a lot of posts in the blogosphere about the disdain for ereaders. There were many vocal folk who insisted they would never abandon the traditional printed book in favor of one of those gizmos. You don’t hear that talk much now.

So we’ll see what happens next. Though I think fee charging will probably become a fixture at some publications, I also think the trend will peak soon. Let’s see how close my guess turns out to be.

So would you pay to submit a story?

Finnegans Deciphered ~ the progress thusfar

I ramble a lot in these blog posts, so maybe I’ve mentioned this before, but I think I am in the end game of my work on Finnegans Deciphered. The little revelations about this or that in the plot have more or less ceased popping into my head. I’m not getting the same understandings of how a given development in the plot ripples through the story any longer. (In fact, I’m beginning to have these insights again about Larger than Life, my fits-and-starts work in progress.) I take all of this as a sign that I’ve pretty much told the story I have to tell, and now I need to polish it. Why, I’ve even begun tinkering with a query letter for the manuscript.

I noted in an earlier post that I had no idea how many words the novel came to or whether I’d need to come up with some subplot to beef it up to “novel length.” And I’d avoided doing an actual word count for a long time because I was afraid of what I would find (or not find). But I whipped up the courage over the weekend to do the math — thanks in part to the frisson of good vibrations that a large glass of iced tea often gives me — and to face the result.

And the result is . . . passable. The word count as it stands today is 61,576, which, I think, meets the minimum for calling my novel a novel. I suspect that there is some fat in that number, that I will need to trim my florid prose a bit in my editing, and that may take me below the 60,000 word threshold, but I also suspect that in my continuous read through, I’ll also discover places where I need to supplement my words and even add bits more to the plot to help it make sense (or in some cases, make less sense since it is a mystery novel of a sort).

Part of my process is to begin a story by tumbling all of my thoughts into a Word file just to see what I have and what suggests itself. As I’m writing, I add to this file just so my stray thoughts and surprising revelations and brilliant insights aren’t lost until I can wedge them into the narrative. Plot points, character development, descriptions, reminders. I have a whole page where I have reworked every single character’s name several times. (Curiously, or maybe not, every single character in my completed novel, The Sleep of Reason, was changed from what I had at the start. Also, no news on the progress of that novel finding an agent, though I am hoping now that the holidays are past I can begin shopping it around again with more hope for attention.) The notes file I have for Finnegans Deciphered stands at about 12,000 words. And that’s just notes. I intend to read through it to see what points I may have missed (or dismissed) that might still find their way into the novel.

Another curious thing, though it retrospect it seems perfectly organic, is that my two main characters, Ann and Greg Finnegan, have taken on lives of their own. I envision a series of novels with them — that had been the goal from the start — but I’m seeing things about their character and their history that I can work in to the other novels. I’m even having a good time imagining an “origins” novel about them. Of course, long-time readers of this blog will know that this is actually my fourth Finnegans novel. The first was apprentice work, from which I intend to steal certain things. The second is a good story that needs an overhaul. The third was lost in a hard drive crash (though I think enough of it survived in email attachments to resurrect it). And now I have the fourth nearly finished. So the Finnegans exist in a world; it’s not surprising to see that they have whole lives and backstories.

So here we are at the start of a new year. I feel as though I am in a good place, which is something to be pleased about (though that might be the iced tea talking).

It’s your right and your obligation!

To vote, that is.

And the polling has now opened over at Bartleby Snopes for the December Story of the Month. I’ve made my choice and cast my vote (and, no, it wasn’t for my story). If you’ve read the December stories there, then perhaps you’ll consider voting for your favorite as well.

I noted last week that my story has already been selected as an Editor’s Choice, so it will appear in the next collection, which is the point of the voting. So let your good taste be your guide.