Friday, December 12, 2014
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Thanks to the World of Publishing Naysayers!
So, this is a day where I'm feeling great about being a writer. I had an essay, "Love At Third Sight" published in a beautiful and gusty Anthology Love, Inshallah The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women. This is my week to be profiled on their website LoveInshallah.com . Thanks to the work of the editors Ayesha Mattu and Nura Maznavi and the contributors, the anthology is selling well. Really well. And how many publishers and agents I've I heard say, "There's no market for antholgies. They just don't sell!"
Well, surprise!
I never thought of my love life as secret. I'm pretty open and out there with my stuff often to the discomfort of those I'm being "out there" with.
Still, when your writing about love it's hard. It's hard not to be sappy of course. It's also hard to be vunerable on the page. I'm wondering now if I had not heard so many publishers and agents say, "Anthologies, just don't sell," if I would have had the guts to submit my essay. If I had, I know I would have spent many hours worrying about what people were going to say.
It's not often that I feel grateful to the "traditional" "conventional" publishing world, but today I am very grateful!
Well, surprise!
I never thought of my love life as secret. I'm pretty open and out there with my stuff often to the discomfort of those I'm being "out there" with.
Still, when your writing about love it's hard. It's hard not to be sappy of course. It's also hard to be vunerable on the page. I'm wondering now if I had not heard so many publishers and agents say, "Anthologies, just don't sell," if I would have had the guts to submit my essay. If I had, I know I would have spent many hours worrying about what people were going to say.
It's not often that I feel grateful to the "traditional" "conventional" publishing world, but today I am very grateful!
Monday, January 23, 2012
I'm so proud to be in this amazing anthology!
The stories that are included in this anthology are amazing. The writers and their stories are brilliant, brave, bold, and beautiful, and I'm running out of B words, but you get the point. And it seems that the New York Times agrees with me. Cut and paste the URL below and see what they have to say --http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/24/books/in-love-inshallah-american-muslim-women-reveal-lives.html?_r=2
Love InshAllah: The Secret Love Lives of American Muslim Women, Valentine's Day 2012 - available for pre-order on Amazon now!
http://www.loveinshallah.com
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Why the heck does she write?: My intention and my first chapter
Why the heck does she write?: My intention and my first chapter: A lot has happened in this past year. Enough for it's own book, before we move on to that book and the new year, I want to share with you th...
Friday, December 30, 2011
My intention and my first chapter
A lot has happened in this past year. Enough for it's own book, before we move on to that book and the new year, I want to share with you the first chapter of the book I worked on this past year--Rebels by Accident. My great agent and friend, Alexandra Soiseth, has it under submission right now. I hope if you like what you read, you will want to read more when its right home is found.
Happy New Year, Happy Writing and Happy Reading~
Rebels by Accident
Chapter 1
This isn’t my first visit to Mayflower police station. The last time, Mom took me with her to register a complaint about a pothole. It was, like, the size of a quarter, but Mom insisted it was dangerous to drive over and she had a child in her car. I was thirteen.
This time, I’m at the Mayflower police station as a criminal. Sixteen (well, almost sixteen), and I’m behind bars. Okay, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic. It’s not like we’re locked up with serial killers or slashers, but we are in a cell. Deanna’s with me, along with about thirty other underage girls who were at the party and didn’t manage to run away in time or convince the police to let them go. As we were piled into squad cars, I watched these girls (and even a few guys) put on all the moves to get out of the arrest—crying, flirting, screaming, fainting, and even begging—but none of it worked.
I have to say that Deanna gave it her best. Not being able to crack a smile really worked to her advantage. I could see that she wasn’t kidding when she told me she was a great litigator like her mom. When the cop found me hiding in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn (Could I have picked a more obvious place?) and dragged me downstairs to line up with the rest of crowd, there was Deanna telling the police that we shouldn’t be responsible for the actions of some stupid guys who brought beer to the party. She almost had one cop convinced to let us go when good old Karen, the bane of my existence, stepped forward and threw up on his shoes.
All through grammar school and middle school, Karen and her butt-kisser Beth talked shit about my family and me. Their favorite insults were that my dad was in Al-Qaida and my mom was only one of his many wives. And Karen didn’t stop with the name-calling. Right in the middle of the entire school cafeteria, she shouted, "Hey, towel head, you forget something." When I turned to her she blew her nose into a napkin and stuck it on my head. Well, at least she’s not in our cell. They put her and all the other vomiting kids in a separate cell—with buckets.
Still, it stinks in here. I stick my nose through the cell bars, trying to breathe air that doesn’t smell like puke, beer, or raw fish. Who has an open sushi bar at a high school party? Then again, what would I know about parties? Yes, tonight was also my first party since first grade.
“Come on, Mar. It’s not that bad.” Deanna pushes against my shoulder. I don’t budge. I don’t say anything.
“Funny how we started tonight wanting to get on the inside, and now we’re hoping to get out.” Deanna stands closer to me. She’s trying hard to make me feel better, but it’s not working. I can’t even look at her now; I know if do, I’ll start to cry. Like I’m not already the biggest freak at school.
“Look, I know you’re freakin’ out here, but I’m sure everything will be okay.”
“Are you kidding me?” I turn to her. I lower my voice. “I’m in jail. Do you know how happy this is going to make my parents?”
“Happy?”
“Now they can feel totally justified when they never let me leave the house again.”
“Relax.”
Relax! We’ve just been arrested! And are now in a holding cell with girls who have picked on me—or, worse yet, ignored me—since kindergarten. On top of that, my parents are going to kill me! Why did I let Deanna talk me into going to this party?
* * *
Okay, the truth: she didn’t have to talk me into anything. I wanted to go. I would’ve done anything, even lie to my parents, to crash a party, even though I knew I wasn’t wanted, that I would probably be kicked out on my ass as soon as I was seen there. But forcibly removed—by the police? That I didn’t expect. Still, I shouldn’t blame Deanna for helping me get what I wanted. But I do. It was amazing tonight—music and dancing—yes, I was dancing; three guys asked me to dance, and I said yes. And nobody made jokes about my dad being a towelhead or my uncle being Bin Laden.
Ever since those people tried to build their mosque near Ground Zero and there was all that controversy, my life has been worse than ever. The kids at school treat me like I’m one of “those people.” But I’m not. Yes, my family is Muslim, but I don’t think they should be building a mosque so close to Ground Zero, either. I mean, I believe in freedom of religion and all, and I know that Muslims died at Ground Zero, too, but why would they want to be where they’re not wanted? I don’t get it. If it’s causing so much trouble, why not just build their mosque somewhere else? It’s just selfish to cause so many problems.
But tonight I was dancing and laughing. I wasn’t a freak or a weirdo; I was just another girl having fun.
* * *
“Actually,” I say, turning to Deanna, “thanks.”
“You’re thanking me?” she says.
“Hey, I know I’m in deep shit, but tonight was an adventure—probably the last one I’ll ever have until I’m at least thirty.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says. Most people would say she has no expression on her face, but I can tell she’s smiling.
* * *
When I first met Deanna last summer, she’d just moved here from San Francisco with her mom. I was the first person she told about her face. I googled it to try to understand better why her face doesn’t work the same way as most people’s faces, but after reading pages and pages of medical blah, blah, blah, it really just boils down to the very first thing Deanna said to me about it: “The muscles in my face don’t work.”
“Does my hair look okay?” I hear some voice from behind me say. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”
I hear another voice say, “No, but do I have anything in my teeth? My mascara smeared?”
“Are they kidding?” Deanna says to me. “We’re in a cell, and they’re worried about their makeup. They should call our school Airhead High.”
“Shush,” I say.
“Mar, no one is listening to us. This crowd is too busy hearing themselves not think.”
Deanna knows they’re shallow. The only reason she even wanted me to crash the party with her was so she could show me what I wasn’t missing. But look at the rest of them. Not one seems the least bit freaked out. Are their parents that laid-back? Damn. Maybe that’s the secret to their coolness—cool parents. If that’s true, I don’t have a chance in hell of ever being in with this crowd.
“Well, it could be worse,” she says.
“How?” I say.
“Oh shit,” she says, watching an officer unlock the large cell door. There stand Karen and Beth—Bitch and Bitchier.
“In you go,” the officer says.
Deanna looks at me. “We could be locked in here with them.”
“Look at this.” Karen stares at me. “Who’re you supposed to be? Cleopatra?”
I rub my eyes. Black eyeliner wipes off on my fingers. I’d forgotten that Deanna had done my makeup before we went to the party. You look like an Egyptian queen, Deanna had said. But not any Egyptian queen. She insists that I'm Hatsheput, the queen who ruled Egypt for over twenty years. Deanna says Hatsheput was the queen who was a king. Deanna loves anything Egyptian, which is probably why she’s even friends with me. But I don’t want to look like an Egyptian queen, even if she was a king. I don’t want to look like an Egyptian anything. I rub my eyes some more.
“Back off,” Deanna says, moving in between Karen and me. Karen is a half foot taller than Deanna, but my bets are on Deanna.
“Hey, Beth.” Karen steps back, banging into the bars. “I just realized why these two are best friends.”
“They come from the same place,” Beth says, like the two of them had rehearsed this scene. Now everyone is listening. “Cleopatra and the Sphinx.”
“You mean Sphinx Face,” Karen laughs.
“She didn’t just say that,” I hear someone say.
“Yes, she did,” someone else says.
Beth lifts her hand to high-five Karen, but Deanna grabs both their hands and, just like a professional wrestler, pulls their arms behind both their backs.
“Fight, fight!” people shout around us.
“Get off of me,” Beth says, struggling. Karen winces.
“Apologize.” Deanna pulls both their arms back harder.
“You’re hurting me!” Beth stops struggling.
“Apologize,” Deanna says.
“Fine. Fine. I apologize,” Beth shouts, and Deanna lets them both go.
“Get the fuck out of my face,” Deanna says.
Beth scrambles over to the other side of the cell. “You’re crazy,” she says, but it’s obvious she’s trying to save face with everyone watching. I know Deanna hears this, but she doesn’t take her eyes off of Karen. Karen opens her mouth, but before anything comes out of it, she closes it and walks over to Beth.
“You okay?” Deanna says.
I nod, but I have never felt lamer. Here she stood up to both of them for the two of us, and I just stood there watching, doing nothing. I didn’t even say anything. And she’s asking if I’m okay? They called her Sphinx Face, and I didn’t do or say anything.
“Deanna . . . ”
“You’ll get it the next time,” she says, like she’s just treated me to a mocha cappuccino.
I force a smile. I can’t imagine doing anything as courageous as Deanna just did.
Happy New Year, Happy Writing and Happy Reading~
Rebels by Accident
Chapter 1
This isn’t my first visit to Mayflower police station. The last time, Mom took me with her to register a complaint about a pothole. It was, like, the size of a quarter, but Mom insisted it was dangerous to drive over and she had a child in her car. I was thirteen.
This time, I’m at the Mayflower police station as a criminal. Sixteen (well, almost sixteen), and I’m behind bars. Okay, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic. It’s not like we’re locked up with serial killers or slashers, but we are in a cell. Deanna’s with me, along with about thirty other underage girls who were at the party and didn’t manage to run away in time or convince the police to let them go. As we were piled into squad cars, I watched these girls (and even a few guys) put on all the moves to get out of the arrest—crying, flirting, screaming, fainting, and even begging—but none of it worked.
I have to say that Deanna gave it her best. Not being able to crack a smile really worked to her advantage. I could see that she wasn’t kidding when she told me she was a great litigator like her mom. When the cop found me hiding in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn (Could I have picked a more obvious place?) and dragged me downstairs to line up with the rest of crowd, there was Deanna telling the police that we shouldn’t be responsible for the actions of some stupid guys who brought beer to the party. She almost had one cop convinced to let us go when good old Karen, the bane of my existence, stepped forward and threw up on his shoes.
All through grammar school and middle school, Karen and her butt-kisser Beth talked shit about my family and me. Their favorite insults were that my dad was in Al-Qaida and my mom was only one of his many wives. And Karen didn’t stop with the name-calling. Right in the middle of the entire school cafeteria, she shouted, "Hey, towel head, you forget something." When I turned to her she blew her nose into a napkin and stuck it on my head. Well, at least she’s not in our cell. They put her and all the other vomiting kids in a separate cell—with buckets.
Still, it stinks in here. I stick my nose through the cell bars, trying to breathe air that doesn’t smell like puke, beer, or raw fish. Who has an open sushi bar at a high school party? Then again, what would I know about parties? Yes, tonight was also my first party since first grade.
“Come on, Mar. It’s not that bad.” Deanna pushes against my shoulder. I don’t budge. I don’t say anything.
“Funny how we started tonight wanting to get on the inside, and now we’re hoping to get out.” Deanna stands closer to me. She’s trying hard to make me feel better, but it’s not working. I can’t even look at her now; I know if do, I’ll start to cry. Like I’m not already the biggest freak at school.
“Look, I know you’re freakin’ out here, but I’m sure everything will be okay.”
“Are you kidding me?” I turn to her. I lower my voice. “I’m in jail. Do you know how happy this is going to make my parents?”
“Happy?”
“Now they can feel totally justified when they never let me leave the house again.”
“Relax.”
Relax! We’ve just been arrested! And are now in a holding cell with girls who have picked on me—or, worse yet, ignored me—since kindergarten. On top of that, my parents are going to kill me! Why did I let Deanna talk me into going to this party?
* * *
Okay, the truth: she didn’t have to talk me into anything. I wanted to go. I would’ve done anything, even lie to my parents, to crash a party, even though I knew I wasn’t wanted, that I would probably be kicked out on my ass as soon as I was seen there. But forcibly removed—by the police? That I didn’t expect. Still, I shouldn’t blame Deanna for helping me get what I wanted. But I do. It was amazing tonight—music and dancing—yes, I was dancing; three guys asked me to dance, and I said yes. And nobody made jokes about my dad being a towelhead or my uncle being Bin Laden.
Ever since those people tried to build their mosque near Ground Zero and there was all that controversy, my life has been worse than ever. The kids at school treat me like I’m one of “those people.” But I’m not. Yes, my family is Muslim, but I don’t think they should be building a mosque so close to Ground Zero, either. I mean, I believe in freedom of religion and all, and I know that Muslims died at Ground Zero, too, but why would they want to be where they’re not wanted? I don’t get it. If it’s causing so much trouble, why not just build their mosque somewhere else? It’s just selfish to cause so many problems.
But tonight I was dancing and laughing. I wasn’t a freak or a weirdo; I was just another girl having fun.
* * *
“Actually,” I say, turning to Deanna, “thanks.”
“You’re thanking me?” she says.
“Hey, I know I’m in deep shit, but tonight was an adventure—probably the last one I’ll ever have until I’m at least thirty.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says. Most people would say she has no expression on her face, but I can tell she’s smiling.
* * *
When I first met Deanna last summer, she’d just moved here from San Francisco with her mom. I was the first person she told about her face. I googled it to try to understand better why her face doesn’t work the same way as most people’s faces, but after reading pages and pages of medical blah, blah, blah, it really just boils down to the very first thing Deanna said to me about it: “The muscles in my face don’t work.”
“Does my hair look okay?” I hear some voice from behind me say. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”
I hear another voice say, “No, but do I have anything in my teeth? My mascara smeared?”
“Are they kidding?” Deanna says to me. “We’re in a cell, and they’re worried about their makeup. They should call our school Airhead High.”
“Shush,” I say.
“Mar, no one is listening to us. This crowd is too busy hearing themselves not think.”
Deanna knows they’re shallow. The only reason she even wanted me to crash the party with her was so she could show me what I wasn’t missing. But look at the rest of them. Not one seems the least bit freaked out. Are their parents that laid-back? Damn. Maybe that’s the secret to their coolness—cool parents. If that’s true, I don’t have a chance in hell of ever being in with this crowd.
“Well, it could be worse,” she says.
“How?” I say.
“Oh shit,” she says, watching an officer unlock the large cell door. There stand Karen and Beth—Bitch and Bitchier.
“In you go,” the officer says.
Deanna looks at me. “We could be locked in here with them.”
“Look at this.” Karen stares at me. “Who’re you supposed to be? Cleopatra?”
I rub my eyes. Black eyeliner wipes off on my fingers. I’d forgotten that Deanna had done my makeup before we went to the party. You look like an Egyptian queen, Deanna had said. But not any Egyptian queen. She insists that I'm Hatsheput, the queen who ruled Egypt for over twenty years. Deanna says Hatsheput was the queen who was a king. Deanna loves anything Egyptian, which is probably why she’s even friends with me. But I don’t want to look like an Egyptian queen, even if she was a king. I don’t want to look like an Egyptian anything. I rub my eyes some more.
“Back off,” Deanna says, moving in between Karen and me. Karen is a half foot taller than Deanna, but my bets are on Deanna.
“Hey, Beth.” Karen steps back, banging into the bars. “I just realized why these two are best friends.”
“They come from the same place,” Beth says, like the two of them had rehearsed this scene. Now everyone is listening. “Cleopatra and the Sphinx.”
“You mean Sphinx Face,” Karen laughs.
“She didn’t just say that,” I hear someone say.
“Yes, she did,” someone else says.
Beth lifts her hand to high-five Karen, but Deanna grabs both their hands and, just like a professional wrestler, pulls their arms behind both their backs.
“Fight, fight!” people shout around us.
“Get off of me,” Beth says, struggling. Karen winces.
“Apologize.” Deanna pulls both their arms back harder.
“You’re hurting me!” Beth stops struggling.
“Apologize,” Deanna says.
“Fine. Fine. I apologize,” Beth shouts, and Deanna lets them both go.
“Get the fuck out of my face,” Deanna says.
Beth scrambles over to the other side of the cell. “You’re crazy,” she says, but it’s obvious she’s trying to save face with everyone watching. I know Deanna hears this, but she doesn’t take her eyes off of Karen. Karen opens her mouth, but before anything comes out of it, she closes it and walks over to Beth.
“You okay?” Deanna says.
I nod, but I have never felt lamer. Here she stood up to both of them for the two of us, and I just stood there watching, doing nothing. I didn’t even say anything. And she’s asking if I’m okay? They called her Sphinx Face, and I didn’t do or say anything.
“Deanna . . . ”
“You’ll get it the next time,” she says, like she’s just treated me to a mocha cappuccino.
I force a smile. I can’t imagine doing anything as courageous as Deanna just did.
Monday, October 31, 2011
A Promise
Life has been, well, life. Not enough hours in a day, days in a year, years in a life time....Yes, i've been busy. But who hasn't.
So, since Halloween is my favorite holiday of the year. I've decided to make a Halloween Resolution!
I, Patricia Marie Gena Dunn, promise to blog at least once a week.
If you care to make your Halloween Resolution, please do. I think studies have shown that people who make Halloween Resolutions follow through much more than those who make New Year's Resolutions.
This study was conducted by a very unreliable source and the study was with one participant.
So, take it for what it's worth.
Happy Halloween!
So, since Halloween is my favorite holiday of the year. I've decided to make a Halloween Resolution!
I, Patricia Marie Gena Dunn, promise to blog at least once a week.
If you care to make your Halloween Resolution, please do. I think studies have shown that people who make Halloween Resolutions follow through much more than those who make New Year's Resolutions.
This study was conducted by a very unreliable source and the study was with one participant.
So, take it for what it's worth.
Happy Halloween!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Title to Come
I have been working on my YA novel for the past five years. I have shared various versions of the book with close to fifty readers, give or take a few. This book almost went into the drawer with my first novel. Only this time the plan was to burn the drawer after I stuck the manuscript into it.
Well, the story, or rather the stories, behind finding the publisher for my book are long and unless you are a writer who is hoping to get her first book published, they're probably not all that interesting. Still, I will probably share some of them in the weeks ahead. But as my nine-year-old friend, Amina, said to me when I was looking for a title for my book, "All stories have to have a moral. So, the title should connect to that moral." Well, we are still looking for the right title for this book. We are close, but no chocolate cigar yet. However, the story of getting this book published does have a moral, several actually--Don't give up! Don't try and do it alone, and Have Faith, the right publisher for your book is out there.
I had this idea in mind of the kind of person I would want for my agent and she turned out to be my close and brilliant friend, Alexandra Soiseth. She not only answers my calls and returns my emails but she cares about my work as much as I do. Then there was my dream publisher. She'd be someone who will work with me and not against me. She'd be someone who answers my emails right away and who is as excited about my book as I am, and she'd have to be someone who loves to share stories about her family as much as I do. There she is Evelyn Fazio of WestSide Books. A press that is dedicated to young adult books about young adults with real stories. No vampires. Not that there is anything wrong with a good vampire story if you can find one, but a press that cares about content and making a difference in this life. I thought I was dreaming. Well, if I was and still am dreaming, then let me not wake up. This cynical writer who was ready to give up all faith is now a believer again. Every writer has the right to her own dream team, and if she can hold on long enough, she will find the right match for her and her book. When her arms get tired, just let those trusted and loyal readers in your writing group stand under you and support your weight for a while. If you don't have a writing group that not only gives you honest but helpful feedback on your work and your life, find one. I can't imagine finishing and revising and revising and revising without one.
Well, is this why I write? To be published? To be read? It's part of it. A great part of it. But I also write because it's what I do. It's who I am. It's who you are. So, keep doing it. Remember--it takes not just a village to write a book, but it takes a whole world. Fill your world with people who are honest and supportive and who will hold the faith when you can't, and you will get your book written, published, and read.
Well, the story, or rather the stories, behind finding the publisher for my book are long and unless you are a writer who is hoping to get her first book published, they're probably not all that interesting. Still, I will probably share some of them in the weeks ahead. But as my nine-year-old friend, Amina, said to me when I was looking for a title for my book, "All stories have to have a moral. So, the title should connect to that moral." Well, we are still looking for the right title for this book. We are close, but no chocolate cigar yet. However, the story of getting this book published does have a moral, several actually--Don't give up! Don't try and do it alone, and Have Faith, the right publisher for your book is out there.
I had this idea in mind of the kind of person I would want for my agent and she turned out to be my close and brilliant friend, Alexandra Soiseth. She not only answers my calls and returns my emails but she cares about my work as much as I do. Then there was my dream publisher. She'd be someone who will work with me and not against me. She'd be someone who answers my emails right away and who is as excited about my book as I am, and she'd have to be someone who loves to share stories about her family as much as I do. There she is Evelyn Fazio of WestSide Books. A press that is dedicated to young adult books about young adults with real stories. No vampires. Not that there is anything wrong with a good vampire story if you can find one, but a press that cares about content and making a difference in this life. I thought I was dreaming. Well, if I was and still am dreaming, then let me not wake up. This cynical writer who was ready to give up all faith is now a believer again. Every writer has the right to her own dream team, and if she can hold on long enough, she will find the right match for her and her book. When her arms get tired, just let those trusted and loyal readers in your writing group stand under you and support your weight for a while. If you don't have a writing group that not only gives you honest but helpful feedback on your work and your life, find one. I can't imagine finishing and revising and revising and revising without one.
Well, is this why I write? To be published? To be read? It's part of it. A great part of it. But I also write because it's what I do. It's who I am. It's who you are. So, keep doing it. Remember--it takes not just a village to write a book, but it takes a whole world. Fill your world with people who are honest and supportive and who will hold the faith when you can't, and you will get your book written, published, and read.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Saturday, November 13, 2010
YA? Why Not?
I used to get asked a lot why I was writing a book for young adults. Now, with the young adult market booming (have you seen how much space Borders now gives to its YA section?) I don't get asked so much. I think people assume it's because the market is there. Now, I'm grateful to be writing for this audience and happy that kids, teens, today are reading, especially after a friend of mine just told me that he has students at his college, and it's a good school, English Lit majors, who brag about how they get away with reading as few books as possible, and never the whole book!
I can't blame these students, okay, I can, but really they are the lost reader generation. You see (and, yes, I know I am aging myself here again) when I was a child, we only had 6 channels, well, really 5 because who watched PBS? Except for when the Electric Company was on. I'm too old for Sesame Street. We didn't have a lot of choice but to read when we were stuck at home and we needed an escape from the pressures of teen life or teen angst or just from our freaking parents who we thought were too old to get it, and “it” as in every thing. When I was thirteen my mother was only thirty-three.
It was different when we could go outside where we played in traffic and, I mean, literally we played in traffic. When it came to us kids, our parents had their long lists of things they pulled their hair out over — our using drugs, having protected or unprotected sex, planning the wedding after the rabbit died, making sure we ate fish on Fridays- but what wasn’t on their freak-out lists was when we played games like—see a car coming, jump into the middle of the street, and when the driver slams on his breaks inches away from your body, extend your right arm out in front of you, and sing, “Stop in the Name of Love.”
Like our parents once were, though we could never imagine it, we were city-kids and city kids played in the streets. When it was hot we swam in fire hydrants and when it was cold, and the pavement icy, we hitched on the back bumpers of city buses and slid until we lost our grips or the bus driver slammed on his breaks and cursed us away.
Yes, this was our version of snowboarding. Only we didn't need a snowboard. We probably needed our heads examined, and we certainly could have used helmets, but those were for people who did really dangerous stuff, like Evil Knievel. We were just kids having fun. And this kind of fun may have not kept us off the streets but it did keep us off drugs, well, for a few years anyway.
But on the days you stayed home sick, especially if your mom knew you were faking but she didn't have the time to argue because she was already late for work, you couldn't go outside and play in traffic, you had to stay home. And Grandma controlled the TV. Grandma and her Soaps--A woman is held hostage in September and nine months later when you turn on the TV that same woman is still tied up in that same room. Only now she's fallen madly in love with her kidnapper. You see that scenario once, twice, and well, it just gets boring. So what else was there to do but read? Sure, there were books for kids-- Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Encyclopedia Brown-- but you were a teenager, a pre-teen anyway, and you want sex, drugs, and rock and roll, adult stuff to read about. If you were lucky, your mom had another book that she had bought that she hadn't read herself, or she wouldn't have left it right there on the shelf in between Betty Crocker’s Cook Book and the Dr. Spock book you thought was about Star Trek and was grateful when you finally did read it that your mother hadn’t. There was that book about where the small town girl goes running off to Hollywood to find fame but instead finds, bad men, drug addiction, and dies from either drugs or a broken heart. The ending was ambiguous. But you savored all 445 pages of it.
So we read, we read books that were age appropriate when we had to for school, but for pleasure we read books that should have been hidden in the back of our parents’ closets, so we wouldn’t see them, the same way our best friend Rita, and her three sisters, had to hide their Kotex pads way in the back of their closet so their one, and only, brother wouldn’t find them. In those days, boys were kept in the dark about menstruation until they were old enough to understand the meaning of, “I’m late.”
Then an innocent game that you played on a television console was invented and that was the beginning of the age of video-game addiction.
And when your grandmother got up to make dinner, well there was now so much more than just the one After School Special to watch. There was now television programming not just for babies, but for teens, and not just in the afternoon but at night, prime time—let’s not forget, The Not for Ready For Prime Time Players, which our parents let us watch because there was no school the next day and in those days there were no for adult audience warnings posted on the corner of your television. Besides, our parents weren’t watching Saturday Night Live anyway. Saturday nights were date nights. And then there came the mother of all inventions—the one thing that gave ever teen the ultimate reason to never have to read for pleasure again, CABLE. While I was in college trying to get through Freshman Comp, my sister and her teen friends were moon dancing to MTV. Remember? Before the commercials?
How could books stand a chance? I'm not saying kids of the generation(s) that followed soon after mine didn't read. Many did. Many wanted to, but they didn't have to for entertainment. They didn't have to read to get a taste of the forbidden, the stuff that peaked their curiosities and hormone levels, but were never discussed among mixed company, meaning their parents. They now had Pay TV and scrambled porn.
But by the grace of god and authors like Daniel Handler (pen name, Lemony Snicket) and J.K. Rowling who gave kids a lot of credit, who knew that kids wanted fantasy, but they also wanted characters that were real and who would take chances and do stupid things like jump into traffic and sing and who also suffered loss. Finally, there were books that could compete with cable, and Fios, and Nintendo. These books were written for them. And yes, books were again read not because they were assigned, but because they were fun and even sexy. Books are no longer for adults or nerds or that bored kid stuck at home with nothing else to do. Books are written for kids, teens, young adults, whatever the market wants to call them, and they are cool.
Here we are 1400 and something words later and I still never answered the questions I started with-- YA? Why Not? I did say, I had struggled with Freshman Comp. If this weren't a blog, and this was a paper for Freshman Comp, and I wanted at least a B, I would go back to the beginning and revise and do that inverted pyramid thing (am I mixing up composition terminology with cheerleader lingo again?). But, this is a blog, and according to the rule of blogging, as I understand them, I can just hit publish post.
I can't blame these students, okay, I can, but really they are the lost reader generation. You see (and, yes, I know I am aging myself here again) when I was a child, we only had 6 channels, well, really 5 because who watched PBS? Except for when the Electric Company was on. I'm too old for Sesame Street. We didn't have a lot of choice but to read when we were stuck at home and we needed an escape from the pressures of teen life or teen angst or just from our freaking parents who we thought were too old to get it, and “it” as in every thing. When I was thirteen my mother was only thirty-three.
It was different when we could go outside where we played in traffic and, I mean, literally we played in traffic. When it came to us kids, our parents had their long lists of things they pulled their hair out over — our using drugs, having protected or unprotected sex, planning the wedding after the rabbit died, making sure we ate fish on Fridays- but what wasn’t on their freak-out lists was when we played games like—see a car coming, jump into the middle of the street, and when the driver slams on his breaks inches away from your body, extend your right arm out in front of you, and sing, “Stop in the Name of Love.”
Like our parents once were, though we could never imagine it, we were city-kids and city kids played in the streets. When it was hot we swam in fire hydrants and when it was cold, and the pavement icy, we hitched on the back bumpers of city buses and slid until we lost our grips or the bus driver slammed on his breaks and cursed us away.
Yes, this was our version of snowboarding. Only we didn't need a snowboard. We probably needed our heads examined, and we certainly could have used helmets, but those were for people who did really dangerous stuff, like Evil Knievel. We were just kids having fun. And this kind of fun may have not kept us off the streets but it did keep us off drugs, well, for a few years anyway.
But on the days you stayed home sick, especially if your mom knew you were faking but she didn't have the time to argue because she was already late for work, you couldn't go outside and play in traffic, you had to stay home. And Grandma controlled the TV. Grandma and her Soaps--A woman is held hostage in September and nine months later when you turn on the TV that same woman is still tied up in that same room. Only now she's fallen madly in love with her kidnapper. You see that scenario once, twice, and well, it just gets boring. So what else was there to do but read? Sure, there were books for kids-- Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Encyclopedia Brown-- but you were a teenager, a pre-teen anyway, and you want sex, drugs, and rock and roll, adult stuff to read about. If you were lucky, your mom had another book that she had bought that she hadn't read herself, or she wouldn't have left it right there on the shelf in between Betty Crocker’s Cook Book and the Dr. Spock book you thought was about Star Trek and was grateful when you finally did read it that your mother hadn’t. There was that book about where the small town girl goes running off to Hollywood to find fame but instead finds, bad men, drug addiction, and dies from either drugs or a broken heart. The ending was ambiguous. But you savored all 445 pages of it.
So we read, we read books that were age appropriate when we had to for school, but for pleasure we read books that should have been hidden in the back of our parents’ closets, so we wouldn’t see them, the same way our best friend Rita, and her three sisters, had to hide their Kotex pads way in the back of their closet so their one, and only, brother wouldn’t find them. In those days, boys were kept in the dark about menstruation until they were old enough to understand the meaning of, “I’m late.”
Then an innocent game that you played on a television console was invented and that was the beginning of the age of video-game addiction.
And when your grandmother got up to make dinner, well there was now so much more than just the one After School Special to watch. There was now television programming not just for babies, but for teens, and not just in the afternoon but at night, prime time—let’s not forget, The Not for Ready For Prime Time Players, which our parents let us watch because there was no school the next day and in those days there were no for adult audience warnings posted on the corner of your television. Besides, our parents weren’t watching Saturday Night Live anyway. Saturday nights were date nights. And then there came the mother of all inventions—the one thing that gave ever teen the ultimate reason to never have to read for pleasure again, CABLE. While I was in college trying to get through Freshman Comp, my sister and her teen friends were moon dancing to MTV. Remember? Before the commercials?
How could books stand a chance? I'm not saying kids of the generation(s) that followed soon after mine didn't read. Many did. Many wanted to, but they didn't have to for entertainment. They didn't have to read to get a taste of the forbidden, the stuff that peaked their curiosities and hormone levels, but were never discussed among mixed company, meaning their parents. They now had Pay TV and scrambled porn.
But by the grace of god and authors like Daniel Handler (pen name, Lemony Snicket) and J.K. Rowling who gave kids a lot of credit, who knew that kids wanted fantasy, but they also wanted characters that were real and who would take chances and do stupid things like jump into traffic and sing and who also suffered loss. Finally, there were books that could compete with cable, and Fios, and Nintendo. These books were written for them. And yes, books were again read not because they were assigned, but because they were fun and even sexy. Books are no longer for adults or nerds or that bored kid stuck at home with nothing else to do. Books are written for kids, teens, young adults, whatever the market wants to call them, and they are cool.
Here we are 1400 and something words later and I still never answered the questions I started with-- YA? Why Not? I did say, I had struggled with Freshman Comp. If this weren't a blog, and this was a paper for Freshman Comp, and I wanted at least a B, I would go back to the beginning and revise and do that inverted pyramid thing (am I mixing up composition terminology with cheerleader lingo again?). But, this is a blog, and according to the rule of blogging, as I understand them, I can just hit publish post.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
got yoga?
Well, it's been a month and half since I last posted. A lot of my time has been spent trying to get my writing out in the world.
There was a time when writers could write and just write or stress about not writing. Today a writer needs to know how to market and how to sell. And we need to know not only how to network but how to social network.
I started to blog because I was stressed about writing and trying to sell my writing, and now I'm stressing about blogging or not blogging? I think it's time to take a yoga class. Or would I just stress about breathing or not breathing?
There was a time when writers could write and just write or stress about not writing. Today a writer needs to know how to market and how to sell. And we need to know not only how to network but how to social network.
I started to blog because I was stressed about writing and trying to sell my writing, and now I'm stressing about blogging or not blogging? I think it's time to take a yoga class. Or would I just stress about breathing or not breathing?
Thursday, September 9, 2010
"I'm not EMO! I'm Poetic!"
My son, two days into middle school, says to me tonight--"I'm not EMO. I'm poetic."
I know where he gets his dramatics from. Both sides of his family have their many moments. But that confidence in his dramatic flair I only dreamt of when I was his age--hormones raging and every family dinner ending with me shouting, "NO BODY LISTENS TO ME!" Is that why I write?
I know where he gets his dramatics from. Both sides of his family have their many moments. But that confidence in his dramatic flair I only dreamt of when I was his age--hormones raging and every family dinner ending with me shouting, "NO BODY LISTENS TO ME!" Is that why I write?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Why Do You Write? (An invitation to let it spill!)
You may have noticed that my last post was a link to another blog where the writer talks about why she writes and also about food! Writing and food have always been two of my great loves and why I write and why or what I eat and when I eat it have been two of my dreaded obsessions. The ones that on Saturday tickle you from your nose to your toes, just like you're favorite children's book. The same ones that on other days infect you like an investation of bedbugs--you want to stop thinking about it, you would give anything not to think about it, but the itching just won't stop.
(By the way, there are inexpensive ways to rid your place of bedbugs. My dad was an exterminator for years, so bugs may not be a love or an obsession for me, but definitely a hobby. If you want to know how to rid your life of these extrodinary creatures, and they are extraodianry, send me a note. Oh, and remind me one day to share my father's story of how he saved a women's life because of his bedbug extpertise.)
Along with your bedbug questions, I am inviting you to post on this blog. Let's get a dialog going about why we write and how we manage or don't manage to keep our writing lives alive. This is one of the places you don't need to worry about spelling, unless that's one of your obessions of course. Of course, if you want to revise and revise or just revise, that's great too. The point is, yes, I do get it eventually, I am inviting you to use this as a place where you can share and swear and hopefully find support to keep on going. Let it spill! Words, unlike oil, need some days to pour out.
So, tell us--Why do you write?
(By the way, there are inexpensive ways to rid your place of bedbugs. My dad was an exterminator for years, so bugs may not be a love or an obsession for me, but definitely a hobby. If you want to know how to rid your life of these extrodinary creatures, and they are extraodianry, send me a note. Oh, and remind me one day to share my father's story of how he saved a women's life because of his bedbug extpertise.)
Along with your bedbug questions, I am inviting you to post on this blog. Let's get a dialog going about why we write and how we manage or don't manage to keep our writing lives alive. This is one of the places you don't need to worry about spelling, unless that's one of your obessions of course. Of course, if you want to revise and revise or just revise, that's great too. The point is, yes, I do get it eventually, I am inviting you to use this as a place where you can share and swear and hopefully find support to keep on going. Let it spill! Words, unlike oil, need some days to pour out.
So, tell us--Why do you write?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Here is a great blog on my two favorite subjects--Writing and Eating: The Whatever Cook: Why I Write
The Whatever Cook: Why I Write: "Friends & I saw Eat, Pray, Love last weekend & bantered while eating Italian food about what was our “Word.” In the movie, an Italian friend..."
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Costa Rica and Zombies
Tomorrow I leave for the airport at 4 AM Eastern Standard time. I am about to embark on a ten day adventure in Costa Rica. I'm both thrilled about the idea and sick to my stomach. This feels a lot like I do after I finish a piece of writing. When you write those last words of your story, the words you are positive are perfect and that no other word combination could make your piece any better, nothing short of shooting heroin can give you that same euphoric feeling. Well, I've never shot heroin and given my borderline-addictive personality I don't plan too, but friends who have, describe it as a ride you don't want to get off until you do, and then it's too late.
Too late.
If you're lucky you may get to relish in your sense of accomplishment (from your writing, not your heroin addiction) for a whole ten minutes before that nagging feeling of dread starts to eat at your brain. Yes, every writer has a zombie inside her--ready to pounce, rip open her skull, and eat away at her brain until any sense of joy and confidence she may have about her work is devoured--chewed and spit out. All that's left is this feeling that makes riding a broken merry-go-round, round and round and round, faster and faster, until you're projectile vomiting all over the onlooking parents screaming for someone to get the damn thing to stop. This did happen to me. I was eight.
Hence, my fear of merry-go-rounds.
I never used to think twice about getting on a plane and flying to some unknown place where not only didn't I speak the language but where there was usually some war going on. I never thought about checking a what-to-bring list. I never even made a list. Never worried about having a first aid kit with me or copies of my travel documents or even enough cash. I just got on a plane and let the good or the bad or whatever comes in between happen. It was all about the experience, which sometimes is just code for "How could I have been so stupid!"
But I'm older now. Too old? I hope not. Still, I haven't left this country in almost eight years, and I realize that has much as it almost brings tears of self-pity to my eyes, I have become domesticated. Those of you out there who know how I keep house, you can stop laughing. I'm not saying that I stay home home and cook and clean my days away, but this once world traveler prefers to stay close to her own bathroom. It's not that I'm afraid of taking risks or having adventures, I just don't have all that much interest in them any more--well. Or maybe, it's just that taking risks to me now means giving myself fifteen minutes lead time instead of twenty five minutes to get to the grocery store before it closes. I think you have to be a mom with a hungry kid to appreciate how daring this really is.
So, all this has me thinking, have I started to take less risks in my writing?
I just started a book about Stregas from the Bronx--Italian witches from the Bronx. A subject I'm curious about, but have a lot more to learn and explore if I hope to get the experience on paper close to perfect. And yet, when I was traveling the world without trying to safe guard myself from all that could go wrong, I would have never taken such a risk. I would have never even considered writing about a subject I didn't already feel I knew well.
Maybe as I grow old, I am taking less risks in life and more risks in my writing. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing or that thing that falls somewhere in between. But it is what it is. And tonight, before I lay me down to sleep, I will check my list of things to bring to Costa Rica-- not just once, but three times, and maybe even four.
All this means is that tonight I may sleep a bit easier, but it doesn't guarantee that when I arrive in Costa Rica and open my bags that I won't have forgotten something.
As long as it's not the imodium, and I avoid merry-go-rounds, I will be okay.
Besides, there really is no full-proof protection against the unpredictability in life and our writing, or from zombies eating our brains.
Have a great few weeks everyone!
Too late.
If you're lucky you may get to relish in your sense of accomplishment (from your writing, not your heroin addiction) for a whole ten minutes before that nagging feeling of dread starts to eat at your brain. Yes, every writer has a zombie inside her--ready to pounce, rip open her skull, and eat away at her brain until any sense of joy and confidence she may have about her work is devoured--chewed and spit out. All that's left is this feeling that makes riding a broken merry-go-round, round and round and round, faster and faster, until you're projectile vomiting all over the onlooking parents screaming for someone to get the damn thing to stop. This did happen to me. I was eight.
Hence, my fear of merry-go-rounds.
I never used to think twice about getting on a plane and flying to some unknown place where not only didn't I speak the language but where there was usually some war going on. I never thought about checking a what-to-bring list. I never even made a list. Never worried about having a first aid kit with me or copies of my travel documents or even enough cash. I just got on a plane and let the good or the bad or whatever comes in between happen. It was all about the experience, which sometimes is just code for "How could I have been so stupid!"
But I'm older now. Too old? I hope not. Still, I haven't left this country in almost eight years, and I realize that has much as it almost brings tears of self-pity to my eyes, I have become domesticated. Those of you out there who know how I keep house, you can stop laughing. I'm not saying that I stay home home and cook and clean my days away, but this once world traveler prefers to stay close to her own bathroom. It's not that I'm afraid of taking risks or having adventures, I just don't have all that much interest in them any more--well. Or maybe, it's just that taking risks to me now means giving myself fifteen minutes lead time instead of twenty five minutes to get to the grocery store before it closes. I think you have to be a mom with a hungry kid to appreciate how daring this really is.
So, all this has me thinking, have I started to take less risks in my writing?
I just started a book about Stregas from the Bronx--Italian witches from the Bronx. A subject I'm curious about, but have a lot more to learn and explore if I hope to get the experience on paper close to perfect. And yet, when I was traveling the world without trying to safe guard myself from all that could go wrong, I would have never taken such a risk. I would have never even considered writing about a subject I didn't already feel I knew well.
Maybe as I grow old, I am taking less risks in life and more risks in my writing. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing or that thing that falls somewhere in between. But it is what it is. And tonight, before I lay me down to sleep, I will check my list of things to bring to Costa Rica-- not just once, but three times, and maybe even four.
All this means is that tonight I may sleep a bit easier, but it doesn't guarantee that when I arrive in Costa Rica and open my bags that I won't have forgotten something.
As long as it's not the imodium, and I avoid merry-go-rounds, I will be okay.
Besides, there really is no full-proof protection against the unpredictability in life and our writing, or from zombies eating our brains.
Have a great few weeks everyone!
Friday, July 2, 2010
They Say... I Say...
They say writing a book is like giving birth—excruciating, exhilarating, exhausting, and what the fuck did I get myself into?
They say revising a book is like raising a child--excruciating, exhilarating, exhausting, and why the fuck can’t I get this right?
They say selling a book is like putting a kid through college on the average median salary in the United States-- excruciating, exhilarating, exhausting, and how the fuck will I ever make this happen?
They say waiting for that editor, who you know will treat your book like it’s her own child, to tell you that she wants it is like…. Actually, they don’t say anything. They just hold their breaths and wait until they hear word, or until they turn blue in the face and pass out on the kitchen floor, cracking the ceramic tile, which ever comes first.
To all of you writers with hard heads, who refuse to give up on your lost children, I say to you-- Forget tough love and spoil yourself rotten, at least for today.
Oh, and watch as many hours of TV LAND that you want. You earned it.
They say revising a book is like raising a child--excruciating, exhilarating, exhausting, and why the fuck can’t I get this right?
They say selling a book is like putting a kid through college on the average median salary in the United States-- excruciating, exhilarating, exhausting, and how the fuck will I ever make this happen?
They say waiting for that editor, who you know will treat your book like it’s her own child, to tell you that she wants it is like…. Actually, they don’t say anything. They just hold their breaths and wait until they hear word, or until they turn blue in the face and pass out on the kitchen floor, cracking the ceramic tile, which ever comes first.
To all of you writers with hard heads, who refuse to give up on your lost children, I say to you-- Forget tough love and spoil yourself rotten, at least for today.
Oh, and watch as many hours of TV LAND that you want. You earned it.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Why the heck is she not blogging?
Believe it or not, I haven't been blogging because I've been writing! Well, really I've been revising, but isn't writing rewriting? So, for the past month instead of blogging, and at times breathing, I've been revising--I mean it. Would I lie to you? Okay, I would, but only if I thought it was the best for the both of us. But this time I'm not. Lying that is. Revising, I am. Very close to meeting deadline. Still 100 pages to get through, but "she thinks she can... she thinks she can... she thinks she can...choo choo!
I hope to be back blogging soon, but for now I'd like to share another blog with you. Now, I know I'm taking a chance here because once you start reading this new blog, you may get too spoiled with the wonder of it, to want to read my blog again. But it's too wonderful for me not to share. Enjoy! http://stonetreelane.blogspot.com/
I hope to be back blogging soon, but for now I'd like to share another blog with you. Now, I know I'm taking a chance here because once you start reading this new blog, you may get too spoiled with the wonder of it, to want to read my blog again. But it's too wonderful for me not to share. Enjoy! http://stonetreelane.blogspot.com/
Friday, April 16, 2010
Some Cheese With That Whine?
Writers (me, myself, and I included) are often sullen and moody and off our freakin' rockers. And we have a predisposition to whininess about our writing. We’re always struggling with our characters, our plot, our landlords, late on the rent again. No money. No respect. No 40lk. If we could do anything else we would. Then why don’t we? I know a lot of you have thought this. If you haven’t come right out and said it. Well, the secret is deep down inside we love it! So, why all the complaining? I don’t know.
Maybe the truth is that we don’t know we love it? Or maybe after years of working three jobs and stealing time away from our families and friends with the only thing to show for it are mailboxes and inboxes stuffed with “we regret to inform yous,” we just forgot how happy it makes us. Yes, we married for love with no prenuptial agreement.
Or maybe the reason why writers are always complaining about their writing is the same reason native New Yorkers are always complaining about New York--too crowded, too cold, too hot, too many tourists. If we sing to the world, "there's no place else I'd rather be," everyone would want to move here, and there are already too many damn people crowding the subways.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Lies Us Writers Tell
I tell myself that honest-gut-wrenching criticism is what I want to hear. This is what will make the work better because the work is what it's all about. It's not about me, Patricia. It's not about me, Pat. It's not about me, Tricia, Trish, Trisher, or any of the other names I'll answer to. It's not personal. It's about the work, the writing. Yes, I want to hear the good, but I want even more to hear the bad and the ugly--the whole truth, nothing but that truth. So, please, reader, go ahead and tear my work apart. Don't worry, I will put it back together and it will be better for it. This is what I say because I am a writer, and I'm full of shit.
When it comes to our writing, the words we drip from our souls, pour from our guts, suck from the right sides and the left sides of our brains, we don't want to hear the truth, at least not the whole truth. We want to hear "I Love it!" "It's perfect!" "Simply brilliant!"
Yes, we want to hear that our work is Brilliant, with a capital B! We don't want to hear the other "B" word. The "but" word or the but-phrase--"There's just one thing..." And we never want to hear the but-question--"What did you mean when you wrote...?"
We tell ourselves, our students, any inspiring writer who will give us the time of day, that criticism of our work put in question form will be easier to take in...Well,it's not.
It may hurt to hear your reader say, "Your dialog sounds wooden." But when your reader asks, "Did you mean for this character to sound wooden?" You're left feeling like an idiot who intended to write bad dialog.
Okay, so it sucks to hear anything about our work that implies that it is anything less than genius. Still, the truth is that after you absorb the good, the bad, and the ugly, after you cry yourself to sleep, after you curse the names of your critics (some of whom are your closest and dearest friends), and after you tire of your voodoo dolls, you can go back to your work and make it better. Or you can go into your kitchen and make a pastrami on rye sandwich.
When it comes to our writing, the words we drip from our souls, pour from our guts, suck from the right sides and the left sides of our brains, we don't want to hear the truth, at least not the whole truth. We want to hear "I Love it!" "It's perfect!" "Simply brilliant!"
Yes, we want to hear that our work is Brilliant, with a capital B! We don't want to hear the other "B" word. The "but" word or the but-phrase--"There's just one thing..." And we never want to hear the but-question--"What did you mean when you wrote...?"
We tell ourselves, our students, any inspiring writer who will give us the time of day, that criticism of our work put in question form will be easier to take in...Well,it's not.
It may hurt to hear your reader say, "Your dialog sounds wooden." But when your reader asks, "Did you mean for this character to sound wooden?" You're left feeling like an idiot who intended to write bad dialog.
Okay, so it sucks to hear anything about our work that implies that it is anything less than genius. Still, the truth is that after you absorb the good, the bad, and the ugly, after you cry yourself to sleep, after you curse the names of your critics (some of whom are your closest and dearest friends), and after you tire of your voodoo dolls, you can go back to your work and make it better. Or you can go into your kitchen and make a pastrami on rye sandwich.
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