value

In my anthropology discussion this morning, we talked about Marxist critique. (Ooooh, exciting stuff.) Anyway, the TA explained the difference between 'value' and 'price' by giving an example about a piece of artwork. "Let's say this art is being sold for $100,000. That's the 'price', but the 'value' is all of the physical materialist labor that went into producing it: someone worked to build the frame, someone made the paint, someone made the paint brush, the artist put physical labor into painting it. All of that labor makes the 'value' of the painting, which is obviously much less than $100,000." Then someone asked about the fact that the artist had to think up the idea for the painting - didn't that add to it's value? "No, imagination and all of that stuff isn't work, so it doesn't contribute to the 'value' at all."

Probably just because I'm an avid imagination user, I had a problem with that. Not to knock Karl Marx or anything (apparently his opinions are pretty valid according to the world at large...) but I think imagination definitely adds to the value of something. I write stories - I have to put in the physical work of typing up the words, but that's easy compared to the time consuming effort of actually thinking up an idea, and putting it into words, and arranging those words in the best way possible. All of that is intangible, but it's work nonetheless.

Especially in a field like writing, imagination is so important to the value of your work. Everyone is so against anything that's cliche; we're all sick of seeing shelves and shelves of vampire books in the YA Section. People want to read something new, something they've never read before.

According to my TA, every book has about the same value. They're made of similar materials, and they took some time to write down, and someone took time to put them together. But I think if you ask any writer or any reader, they'll tell you that they definitely don't value books the same at all. 1001 Nights has made such an impact on the world - does it have the same value as Captain Underpants? Maybe to a third grader it does, but the idea is the same when it's reversed.

Just had to rant about this. Don't mind me. XD

update

The Thistleswitch Update

I've been editing Thistleswitch obsessively this past week - "obsessively", as in, I can't eat, sleep or breathe without agonizing over every single little thing about the story that doesn't blister me with its brilliance. I constantly have it open on my computer, I constantly reread the beginning chapters and change things, I constantly attempt to reword the purple passages in a way that's easy to understand but maintains the flavor of the story. Yeesh.

The Unnamed Companion Update

Still nothing to update. I haven't touched it in what feels like ages. I'm trying to figure out if I start the story in the right place, or if I started it too early. But that's not really one of my priorities right now.

And, drummmmmmrooooooolllllllll...

The OTHER Unnamed Companion Update

I've mentioned before that I have three different "sequels" for Thistleswitch lined up in my head. Terrence and Jovie's story was the second, and the third is all about Niko's little sister Azalea. For the longest time I didn't know diddly squat about the actual plot of the story (except that she gets turned into a cat, heheh). But the other day I had a dream about the story, and now I know just enough details that I can start to write, and I'm clueless about just enough details that it will maintain a Thistleswitch-y feeling while I'm writing.

Of course, Novemeber is coming up. November means NaNoWriMo (which you should do). I can't decide if I want to try to use Aza's story for NaNo, or if the stressful nature of it will mess with the story's mojo. And, other than Aza, I've got two other stories that want to be written this November. I really can't decide which one to use.

So this coming month might either be really productive on the Thistleswitch front, or not productive in the slightest. We'll see how it goes.

i am a writer

I am a writer. I am a terribly unstable creature. These sentences are synonymous.

One minute, I will ramble to you for twenty minutes about this awesome story idea that I just got, that will totally rock the world and everyone in it. I will laugh at my own jokes with wild abandon, and reread my own manuscript over and over again to revel in the glow of my literary brilliance.

The next minute, I will rant to you for twenty minutes about how my story is the crappiest thing that was ever written, that doesn't deserve to exist in the world and should never see the light of day again. I will weep bitter tears over my keyboard with wild abandon, and reread my own manuscript over and over again while repeated banging my head against something hard to attempt to forget my literary failure.

Though there may be writers in this world who write for their own pleasure and no one else's, I happen to be a writer who lets other people read my work. This is a no-win situation. If you read my story, you will probably point out things that don't work. If you call to my attention something that I already know is an epic fail, I will pound my head against the wall a few more times, because I have certainly already agonized over the same passages countless times and haven't found any way to improve them. If you point out something that I didn't know was a problem, I will become depressed and/or defensive, and either convince myself that there's nothing good at all about the story or that you don't know anything about writing and I should ignore your advice. Though neither of these practices is particularly helpful or polite, I am a writer. It's what we do.

If you say that you like what I've written, I will be bound and determined not to believe you. You're probably just saying that because it's what you're supposed to say, the same way that parents are supposed to tell their kids that they're attractive and friends are supposed to tell you that the giant zit on your face is hardly even noticeable.

When a writer gives you their manuscript, they are giving you a part of their soul. This is very overdramatic, but writers tend to be that way. Our stories are our babies, coaxed out of our brains bit by agonizing and wonderful bit, arranged just so, worked on late into the night. Every ounce of it is our own, and though we may decide to share it with the world, we are predisposed to believe that no one else can understand and love it the way we do. If you don't understand and love it the way we do, we will want to bash our heads against the wall.

I find it amazing that there are writers in the world who are brave enough to publish their work. I find it amazing that I hope to be one of those writers. I also find it simultaneously stupid, foolish, frightening and impossible. Yes, I can feel all of these things at once. I am a writer.

rewrite fail

The first chapter of a book is critical. It needs to grab hold of the reader by the eyeballs and drag them further into the story. It needs to be The Best Thing Ever Written, or agents won't look twice at it.

So why oh WHY does my beginning stink so much?

I've been working on editing Thistleswitch, getting it up to snuff. I rewrote the Switching Spot scene (which I'm still not uber-happy with) and tweaked a bunch of little things, and fixed all the stupid grammar and spelling mistakes. And, rereading the story, I came to the (somewhat narcissist?) conclusion that I still love it. I'm still proud of it. I still think it's good enough.

Except for the dang first chapter.

Each time I read The Chapter in Which We Become Acquainted with a Number of Important Places and People, I die a little more inside. It just gets worse and worse. And I don't know how to make it better. The good thing is that I acknowlegde that it needs to be changed: one of the things that professional writers always seem to stress is that if you're so attached to what you've written that you think it's perfect, you've got a problem. My problem is that I know very well that it's not perfect, but I don't know how to make it even remotely passable.

The Thistlethought Forest was a peculiar place, even as forests go. It did, of course, have all the ordinary oddity of a forest: the constant hustle and rustle through the undergrowth, the resident yellow eyes that materialized in the darkness, and the spine-tingling feeling that something was always watching your every move; because something often, in fact, was. It wasn’t especially exceptional in the fact that fluorescent purple moss was a common occurrence on the trunks of the trees, or in the fact that those trees, more often than not, could stare at a body as he passed. And there was nothing decidedly distinct about the wildlife that inhabited those trees, for the fire-breathing muskrat and six-legged snake were quite abundant throughout the land, from Mistmurder Woods far to the north to the Silentsigh Grove on the shores of the southern ocean.

No, what made the Thistlethought Forest a particularly peculiar place was the Shift.

Does that cut it for a first paragraph? No; that is probably the wordiest, purplest first paragraph that ever existed. Blegh.

Does it make you want to keep reading? It makes me want to skip straight to the next chapter. Which is what I've been doing for the past week. Which is why the first chapter is still just sitting there in all its craptastic anti-glory.