The Organic Section

Nebulous banality of-the-day: So much of writing is about process.  I guess this is an easy enough idea to gloss over, since when it gets down to the nitty gritty, process doesn’t matter as long as you’ve found the one that works for you and you get the end result for which you’re looking.  Or, as most people tend to call it: a finished novel.

Ellis can’t start a book unless he knows the last line.  He can’t write until he’s outlined everything that’s going to happen.  And to me, that’s a foreign language.  When I first started writing this book, I certainly didn’t know where it was going (let alone the fact that it’d even turn into a novel).  And as Christian grew in front of me and consumed me, and our worlds morphed together, I found him writing the story for me, found myself being merely a vehicle to get his story out in a polished way.  I always imagined that outlining took away the authenticity of the way a plot grew, or had to potential to force characters into making choices that they wouldn’t necessarily, especially as you learned more about them through the prose.

So, I guess this is the part where I say that I’m going to try outlining this next revision.  I’m at this really odd, different place: I have something to accomplish, but I don’t want to upset the delicate framework of what’s there (and what’s gotten me this far thus far), and I also don’t want to start free-writing and take it too far, thus compromising the book (my biggest fear at the moment).  I figure trying to outline the changes might help me see exactly how the new stuff will play into the existing structure, and will help me control what exactly happens.  The approach seems totally inorganic, which is what I’m against, but if I really step back and think about it, nothing in this revision really is organic.  I’m fixing a problem, fleshing out something that’s already in the text, albeit hidden, and while the progression of the scene and the characters still needs to feel natural, I’m not in a place where I have to worry about letting the story line run wild to generate more plot and pages.

I’m not sure it’s going to work, but I figure I’ll try it and see what happens.  Need a little something to rev the creative engine, anyway, since snapping myself back into Myself is proving to be a hell of a thing at the moment.

M

Cognitive Dissonance, Part 295

Another obnoxious third-person list in lieu of substantial text, commencing now:

1. Mind is so gone, Writer can only form mock-sentences, such as those appearing within list.  (Thank god list auto-generates itself, as yesterday Writer managed to number something in the following sequence: “18, 19, 21, 20.”) 
2. Taking several-week hiatus from text.  Writer needs fresh perspective/the ability to utilize words for revisions (and to stop flipping the hell out, which Writer is currently finding impossible).
3. “Oh look Writer is dealing with this so maturely!  Writer is not shutting herself off from the world!  Bravo Writer!” is news of the past. 
4. Wah wah wah all the way home.  When does Writer have to become a person again?  Soon?  Well, this is news to Writer.

Seeking September

In all honesty, I’m surprised I’m composed enough to be writing this right now.  In most instances, I would say it’s a sign of my maturity, but at this point, I’m fairly certain it’s more reflective of the fact that I’ve lost my mind to the point where sensibility has dulled into numbness.  I really feel a bit more gone mentally than I have in a while.

I guess this the part where I bring myself to write that the potential deal that was creeping closer to reality has come to a halt.

Of course, I knew it could happen.  I’ve been playing with that balance between delusional confidence for the sake of motivation versus the realistic grounding for the “just-in-case” scenario, but I guess I’d let myself sway a little too far to the left.  And everyone in my life has always yelled at me for my “It’s better not to get excited about something before it happens so you don’t get let down if it doesn’t” philosophy.  I would say, “Who’s laughing now?”  But the answer is no one.

I’m not sure what’s next.  A few revisions, certainly, that I know will make the book stronger.  I’m excited about them, and will be writing keeping in mind my concrete goals for the plot and characters.  But here’s the issue: Even if, hypothetically, I “fix” Christian’s intangibility (setting aside the fact, for a second, that that’s the characteristic that makes him intriguing, and the book’s uniqueness would completely fall apart if he became too transparent), if the largest core of rejections are coming because my subject matter is too risky—too edgy—nothing’s going to change that.  And that’s what has me absolutely up-against-the-wall terrified.

Here’s the thing.  I can write.  I don’t think this is an egotistical, overextension of character judgment.  I wouldn’t be agented if I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t be at the point with this book that I am if I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t have my agent saying, “If you would just read the things these editors are saying about your prose and talent…” if I couldn’t. And with that ability, I could have written genre or commercial fiction.  I could have written a PG-13 love story.  I could have done anything.  But I chose the challenge of getting my hands dirty, of digging into a subject that scares certain people, of exploring a mind so complex and disturbed that it took me years to understand it completely.  And I did it for a reason.  I guess I just have to come to acknoweldge the fact that taking on that challenge and risk opened up the path to more challenge and risk when actually faced with the opportunity to explore publishing.  And I have to understand that acknowledging and accepting are two different things.  I’m getting there.

For now, I have to take a couple of weeks off.  Chill.  Calm down.  Get perspective on the book, the situation.  Have a long meeting with my agent and make sure that with the many ways I could make the changes I’m picking the right approach, and making a plan with the revisions that assures me I’m not compromising the book into something I don’t recognize just for the sake of selling it.  I’m twenty-three.  There are more books in me.  Revising to improve what I wanted to accomplish with the manuscript is worth it.  Revising past that point just so someone will buy it is not.

I’m out of the realm of the magically easy, wunderkind overnight publish fantasy.  Fairy tail’s snuffed.  Everything about this right now is so fucking real, especially how much it stings.

M

Anyone’s Ghost

Pins and needles.  What’s scarier now more than ever is that I’m so close I can taste it, but the wind can swoop in and knock the ice cream from my cone in a matter of seconds—even mid-bite. (How’s that metaphor for the day after a holiday weekend?)

I’m trying to keep my nerves in check, trying to squelch the anxiety, trying to avoid feeling physically sick.  Everyone’s mentioned how together I’ve kept myself through this whole thing.  If only they were a nerve cell on my stomach lining, perhaps they’d reconsider.  But I have been okay, taking Bret’s advice and acknowleding that it’s out of my hands; though now that it’s come back into my hands and out again after a few tweaks, I feel directly responsible for the result—even if, ultimately, the decision on whether or not a contract’s in the works isn’t mine.  So, the anxiety is back in a way that’s slowly becoming bigger than me, and I’m measuring hours in potential emails and phone calls.

(But, even through the madness, every feeling is more meaningful, more real when you can touch it.  It’s true.)

M

Mo. Men. Tum.

You Destroyed Everything

92y:

Our parents were young, loaded, and deep into their careers in international finance, as well as their self-absorbed storybook romance. My father, American with a mother from France, and my mother, French Canadian, had met in business school in Montreal, married quickly, and planted their shallow roots. When they were barely thirty, Anaïs and I happened accidentally, but our births didn’t stop their business ventures and European trysts.

Above is a selection from the short story You Destroyed Everything, by Meredith Turits.

Read that and more than a dozen other inspiring and incredible works from the newest issue of Podium, the 92nd Street Y Unterberg Poetry Center’s literary journal produced by students in our creative writing program. 

So, yes, some exciting news: An excerpt from the novel was published in the 92nd Street Y literary journal, Podium, which was released this past week.

With everything thrilling (/nauseating/anxiety-inducing/heymyBlackBerrybuzzedisthatmyagent?) that’s been happening with the manuscript, I’m glad I get to step back from it all for a second and take in just how freakin’ cool this is for me.  Worthy of my first reblog, I’d say.  Now, as long as I’m still doing the dream-so-big-I-intimidate-myself thing, I suppose I’ll have to add “92Y author lecture” to the list.

M

Reblogged from 92nd Street Y.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

If I’ve learned one thing about myself this week, I’ve learned I have self-control.  I may still be unnerved as sin and without sleep, but I haven’t been sending my agent daily emails or bringing anyone else into my madness (minus my admittedly sort of anti-social nature as of late).

Since Tuesday, I haven’t been able to get the image of Ellis’s packed Barnes & Noble out of my head.  Since this novel really started becoming something, I set my penultimate goal as one day, no matter how far down the line it is, getting invited to read at the Union Square B&N.  So, not only has seeing Ellis there affected me, but being part of a standing room only crowd waiting with bated breath for an author—in a world where literary celebrity is virtually non-existent—well, I suppose it’s always strange watching someone live out a dream you’ve put at the top of your list.  Not in filled-with-heady-jealousy kind of way, but in a “Well, shit, I’ve got quite the task in front of me” sort of way.  The mountain I have to climb doesn’t seem any taller lately, but at times I wonder if it’s gotten steeper.

Friday, I got some bits and pieces of news about editor submissions.  I’ve gotten some very good reads and there’s interest (about which I’m too superstitious to speak, and I’m crossing my fingers so hard they might break), but also, the declines I’m getting (inevitably) are coming with rave reviews about the actual quality of prose.  Despite them being nos, they’re reminders why I’ve gotten this far in the first place—and I’m not too proud to admit the reminder’s needed sometimes.  (Side note: I’m also proud that I’m being down to earth enough to be able to see that there’s a such thing as a “good no,” and that I’m not in a “Waaahhh but no means no” depression spiral thing.)

I knew I was taking on a tough—if not taboo—topic.  I knew that this process would be hard, and I need to give myself credit for the patience I’m exercising.  Bottom line: If this is going to get published, I’ll need someone who’s excited to take a risk not only on a debut author but a hard subject, too.  But some of the most memorable fiction has been the most controversial, and some of voices that have endured longest have risen through addressing things about which people don’t talk.  I know there’s someone who wants to listen.

M

Tonight, I told Bret Easton Ellis my story, and asked him if there was something he wished he’d known twenty-five years ago when he was in his early twenties and on the verge of publishing. First, he congratulated me. Then, he told me he used to be nervous when he was young, too.  He said I needed to sleep, and to drink a glass of wine every night.  ”But it’s out of your hands, so just relax.  No one cares about your madness but you.  Just relax.”

Thank you for more than you realize, Mr. Ellis.

When You Give Up Life For Fiction

I’m excited that the next couple of days will offer me a distraction from emails about editors and publishers and the subsequent emotions.  (Of course, my BlackBerry is still a third arm.  But that’s neither here nor there for the sake of this post.)  Bret Easton Ellis is spending two days reading in New York.

A step back: Those who’ve followed me (or, hell, had a single conversation about contemporary literature with me) know that in my literary vocabulary, Ellis is my most important writer.  He’s the voice who piqued my interest in books, informed me enough to hone my own work, taught me most through his writing and legacy, and, most recently, reminded me not to let my characters rest (hence, the dawn of the second novel, which is moving right along).  I’ve never seen him in person nor met him, and I’m not the kind of person who is starstruck by celebrities nor create worlds in which she believes she knows said celebrity, but I’ve always felt this sort of strange parallel between his world and mine, his story and mine.  I’m thrilled to connect the thread over the next two days seeing him read, and I don’t think it could be happening at a better time.

I’ve been floored by the way in which the recent events of my life have fallen into place—the people with whom I’ve connected, the way in which I’ve met them, the news that’s been delivered, the progress really happening.  I won’t lie that I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll have some more good news to contextualize with my first face-to-face with the man who’s most inspired me.  But I suppose I’ll scale it back a bit focus on getting my first full night of sleep in a couple weeks instead.

M

Excerpts from “How Modern Literary Genius Is Constructed and Perpetuated,” a series of gchat conversations between Anna Deem and Meredith Turits:

me:  okay, so she’d go to New York because a) she knows Christian is there from the lawyer (I am not sure when she makes the call but I left it open ended in the other MS so I could play)
b) because she feels stupid turning around and going back to LA
c) because it’s New York?
OR she goes back to LA because
a) her life is there even if it sucks and Nate is too
b) because it’s a pain in the ass to write characters in nine different cities

Unintentional Carnival Rides

For those ever considering writing a novel and then trying to get it published, I urge you to find some unassuming psychopharmacologist willing to prescribe you copious anti-anxiety medication.

Accordingly, let’s take a foray into the writer’s head at this stage in the process, in which manuscript is out to confidential number of ridiculously amazing editors at confidential ridiculously amazing publishing houses.  Top five points of the last week, summarized semi-succinctly below (in which the writer begins to speak in third person, Rejectionist-style, as nerves increase to astounding levels):

1. Writer has not really slept since last Friday, when calls to editors started.  (1a: F train naps do not contribute towards overall “well-rested” goal.)
2. Writer should probably be paying the Prospect Park YMCA rent, and apologizes to her fellow Y patrons for her angsty appearances on the spinner, which is currently Writer’s only outlet to funnel anxiety.
3. Writer has developed odd habit of not only being nosy about which books fellow New Yorkers are reading, but now also which presses have published them.  This is unbecoming to watch in action.
4. Writer was never a fan of roller coasters nor virtual reality simulators (except at the Intrepid; that one kicked ass).  Yet, the cognitive dissonance surrounding the “I need to stay grounded/I need to let myself dream” divide has erected the world’s finest nausea-inducing ride inside Writer’s abdomen.
5. Whether she intended it, Agent has become surrogate second mother and light therapist.  Writer is highly, highly sorry for this fact, but plans on baking Agent a tray of her famous Vegan Kitchen Sink Cookie Bars as soon as she can again be trusted near open flames.

Writer M

A Movie About Us

It’s about ten p.m. on Monday, June 14—roughly two hours before Imperial Bedrooms comes out.  You know, not that I am counting down nor looking forward to it so much I might puke.

Naturally, the one day since March that I have to leave for work before nine a.m. (read: when the Barnes & Noble across the street opens) is tomorrow. Overcome with quiet, five foot tall girl rage and my high-pitched sweetheart voice, I just tried to weasel myself a copy before the clock struck twelve. But corporate America (and an employee wishing to keep his job) won, and I will have to wait until my stupid meeting is over tomorrow, then conveniently offer to go on a Starbucks run for everyone.

In related news, I dream of one day being legitimate enough a writer that I don’t need to grovel to a bookstore employee to snag the next Ellis novel, and that, one day, someone will fake an out-of-town trip to get his hands on a copy of my novel two hours before it’s released, too.

Dreams, dreams, dreams.

M

Touch Tank

Right.  So, remember when I said everything was happening so fast that I hadn’t yet had time to process it (i.e. Wednesday)?  Well, yes, that’s still relevant in some ways.  The fact that I went from zero to agent to submittable manuscript in basically two weeks has still given me a kind of reality whiplash from which I haven’t yet recovered.  However, yesterday, when I was given the list of editors to whom the manuscript was going out, I started to feel a murmur.  And then when I got the email that the phone calls from my agent had started; well, let’s just say I had to take a moment to regroup.

When I’m excited, when I’m nervous, when I’m feeling things with my entire body, I don’t sleep.  Last night, I barely slept.

When you’re just starting out as a writer (or, as anyone in the arts, I guess), you have to lie to yourself.  You have to tell yourself, “I’m going to get there.  I’m going to finish this novel, then it’s going to be so good that I’m going to get an agent, and then it’s going to be so good that editors are going to read it and then they’re going to love it so much that they’re going to buy it.  And I’m going to walk into a bookstore and I’m going to be there on the fiction table, and I’m going to watch a stranger walking out of the store with my book in his hands.”  And then you have to believe it with everything you have in you.  Because otherwise, if you really put into perspective how much of a shot in hell the whole thing is—and how, as you travel on in your “I must believe this” self-convincing spree, the chances of what you’re convincing yourself actually happening decreases even further—you’ll never work for it.

So, when lying to yourself to make sure you keep trying transitions into something that’s actually happening, step by step, you’re bound to be in disbelief for a while.  But I’m glad understanding it’s reality is finally kicking in; even though the most important part of the process is still the one missing piece, this whole journey’s a hell of a lot more exciting when I’m feeling it screaming in my chest.

M

I’ve had people say things to me such as, “X has all happened so fast, I’ve barely had time to process it or feel anything.”  And I’ve always thought to myself, “Well, that’s simply unrealistic.  If something significant and exciting happens to you, you’re filled with feeling instantly.  That’s the way it works.”

Lately, everything has been happening so fast, I haven’t even stopped to process it or feel what I’m supposed to be feeling.

Yup.  Tomorrow’s a big day.

No Gravity Training

I’ve spent the weekend turning myself into as close to a machine as I possibly can.  My agent had given me clear-cut goals to address in this revise, which in actuality were quite small and manageable, and until about the tenth of the month to get them done.  But I’ve been so motivated to get this out, so excited to get back into Christian’s voice (and stunned by the ease with which it came) and had such a defined plan for the revisions that, instead, I dove in head first and was able to complete them all this weekend, plus a full line-edit (Note to self: The Second Avenue train is, indeed, on Second Avenue, not Broadway), and even throw in some additional changes and expansions that weren’t on my original list.  Once I got into the mindset of what I needed to accomplish, the revisions no longer felt like a list of things I was just ticking off; instead, I felt like I was building momentum, weaving a precise thread throughout the pages, and the places that needed more weren’t things for which I had to dig.  Dare I say it—I had so much fun being poised over a keyboard once again, back behind my novel.

Now, a few short, open letters to summarize my (hopefully final) weekend of revisions:

Dear agent: You are completely brilliant.

Dear self: Why didn’t you think of these changes yourself?

Dear book: You are so, so, so much better.

Dear Tea Lounge: Sorry for loitering for seven hours on Saturday, and another two on Sunday.

Dear fancy editors: Let’s make this happen, yes?

M