Writing. Living. Reality.

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on March 22, 2011 at 7:16 PM

“Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.” –Catherine Drinker Bowen, Atlantic, December 1957

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” –Ray Bradbury

I’m in between projects. I’m working on an awesome blog series coming up in about a week, but it’s nonfiction. I have a handful of fiction and poetry pieces started, but they all seem to be… well… not stalled, exactly, but perhaps receded. I like them, I remember them, but I don’t want to write on them. At least not right now.

I’m missing that one creative project that really calls to me – not in the front of my mind, but in the back of it. That mysterious voice that speaks separately from my mouth, to only my ears. My muse, if you’ll pardon the cliché.

You might think this is a good thing. I have recently finished a 100,000 word novel, edits and all, and submitted it to a handful of excellent agents, some of whom actually requested it specifically. I feel relieved, but not exhausted. It’s strange, but I still want to write.

I’ve still got the bug, but nothing to work on.

They (and who the hell are They, anyway?) say that you should take a break between big projects. That you should relax and enjoy “real life” for a while, to remind yourself what the real world is like with, you know, those three-dimensional, physically-existent people. Ha! As if they’re ever interesting. Okay, maybe a bit. But still, half of my life is in my head and in my Word documents – and I like it that way.

This has never happened to me before, this strange sense of floating. Maybe I’m being too impatient. I mean, it’s only been a few days. But I feel like a shell. Like half of my life is missing.

Writers, have you ever felt like this? (And does it happen to other types of artists too?) Do you find yourself floundering between projects? Does some idea usually stand up, wave its arms, and call to you, or do you sit down and choose one based on logic? I’m really asking.

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Posted in The Art | Tagged | 10 Comments

I Prefer My Authors Dead

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on March 17, 2011 at 3:37 PM

No, this is not some creepy, horrific, horror-creeper creep-fest. I love my authors alive, too. And I don’t mean to make light of those who have come before us. It’s just that, well… you can’t ask dead authors questions, that’s all.

And people do ask living authors questions, which is fine – most of the time. By all means, milk them for their knowledge. Everyone in any field should be so lucky as to get an opportunity to talk craft with an expert. This doesn’t bother me. Except when I hear a question like this, “Did you intend for the color of Falula’s shirt to symbolize her inner turmoil?”

Omg. Why would you ever ask an author if they intended for their book to carry a certain motif/symbolism/theme?

You see it enough to ask, don’t you? So it’s there. Who cares if they planned it? What difference does it make?

Any author worth his/her salt knows that people will see things in his/her book that he/she never planned to be seen. Maybe that they never even wanted to be seen. This is the value of interpretation. Otherwise, we would use a different word. Like maybe uncovering. Which is so High School English, isn’t it?

There are no rights and wrongs here. As an adult reader-by-choice, there are no tests for you to fail, essays for you to “get right,” or spur of the moment questions you must be prepared to answer in front of your peers.

I had this one English prof at UT who taught contemporary literature by authors such as Philip Roth, Toni Morrison, Lorrie Moore, and Don DeLillo. That was by far the most difficult class I’ve ever taken. It was the closest I came (ironically, it was also the very last class I took) to ruining my 4.0 GPA that I’d worked so hard for. I squeaked by with an A, but I’m pretty sure the fluid I was sweating during that semester was thicker and redder than water. But hey, I learned a lot.

The professor told us a story about how he was lucky enough to have dinner with Don DeLillo, which is, to be fair, a pretty huge deal. I know I would be cleaning house. But then he proceeded to tell us that he and the author stayed up till some ungodly hour discussing DeLillo’s books. And Professor Nameless was so excited to finally ask DeLillo if the deeper thematic considerations he’d been teaching to college students all these years were indeed intended by the author.

If you ask me, that takes all the fun out of it.

Each reader brings their own set of ideas, values, and backgrounds to the story. And furthermore, each reader has that right. I believe we should all be able to read a book and decide what the different parts of it mean to us, free of someone else’s preconceptions of such – even if that someone is the creator.

I might be in the minority here; I’m not sure. What do you think? Does it matter if the reader’s interpretation matches up with what the author’s intentions? Does seeing something unintended mean it isn’t there? Does that devalue the author’s work? You know my thoughts; what are yours?

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Typos

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on March 10, 2011 at 4:05 PM

For a perfectionist like me, the internet is an imperfect thing, seeing as it allows me to be less than perfect.

Not only does it not correct my mistakes as I go, like my dear friend Spell Check, it immortalizes my errors and typos in some alternate universe of permanency, forever to be viewed by mortal eyes, no matter how many times I jab the backspace button or frantically re-click “delete” on old posts. They are still there, hiding around the corner of some tightly woven cable, ready to pop up when someone Googles just the right phrase.

My careless skip of a “g” in a verb is floating in cyberspace, taunting me, crouching until just the right time. And my hasty spelling of “grammar,” or god forbid the your/you’re debacle – that one time I slipped up. They all lie in wait, hackles raised, teeth bared, angry that I created them and left them there to die. Their only revenge? Reveal themselves at just the right (wrong) time.

One day, someone will Stumble Upon a key mistake and seek me out, accuse me of lying, confront me. They’ll post banners on my house that say “NOT AN ENGLISH MAJOR!” A mob will form. Eggs will be thrown. Someone will create a dangerous virus and release it in my back yard, trying to flush me out, but it will mutate and evolve more quickly than anyone could have known. Grammar Nazis will become zombies of punctuation-rage. They will pound on my windows, rip down my bricks, reach under my door, moaning, “YOU LEFT OUT A COMMA!”

Meanwhile, I will be at my computer, dry eyes staring straight ahead, Dr. Pepper like an automatic extension of my free hand, trembling as I type, trying to put things to rights. I will let my mouse scurry all over the screen, searching for scraps – hunting for little bits of imperfection to annihilate. But the mouse and I both know it is too late. Some mistakes cannot be undone. Some mistakes have already been seen by thousands of eyes, and our reputation will never be whole again.

Finally I will break down, fling open the door, run into the horde, and scream, “Okay, okay! Take back the diploma! Rid me of these shameful tragedies!” I will hold out my shaking hands, wretched, with a sob on my lips and defeat in my lashes, and then I will be consumed.

You got me, interwebs. I have made typos. I am unworthy.

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How We Ran Over my Husband

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on March 3, 2011 at 3:24 PM

When the hub-a-dub and I were at the ripe young age of 16 (yes, back when Kyle was just a dub), my mom took us (Kyle, my brother, and me) to Port Aransas beach for a short vacation. Quick summary of the internal relationships going on: Kyle and I were 16 and secretly dating. We were also best friends and that’s what everyone else thought was all we were. My brother Robert is one year older than us, and he and Kyle were pretty much best friends too. At this point, Kyle was around so much that he was already a member of our family, which is why he went on vacation with us.

One night after my mom had gone to bed, the three of us youngsters decided we were going to drive around the small town to a gas station to get some snacks or something. This is what teenagers do when they’re bored and having a driver’s license is still cool. Although some of you may not believe me, I’m going to go ahead and say now that none of us were under the influence of any illegal substances. Seriously. That’s not how we rolled. (So many puns!)

And so it was in my mother’s minivan that the infamous event occurred.

You see, Kyle has always been a daredevil. In fact, when my mom asked his mom if Kyle could come with us, she gave my mom a medical release form. Now at the time, we were all thinking, “Holy crap, lady, take a chill pill.” But as you will see, she was simply taking the most basic of motherly precautions for her accident-prone child.

Kyle: “Hey, Robert, if I got out right now, do you think I could run alongside the car?”

Robert: “Dude, no way. We’re going 15 miles an hour.”

Kyle: “Awwww… that’s not that fast.”

Me: “Um, yeah it is. It’s way faster than it looks.”

Kyle: “No way! You don’t think I can do it?”

Robert and me: “Nuh-uh.”**

*long pause as Kyle examines the road out the backseat window*

Kyle: “I’m gonna do it.”

Me: “Oh, I really don’t think you should.”

Kyle to Robert: “Don’t slow down. Just keep it steady. I’m gonna hit the ground running.”

Robert: “Okay.” *facepalm*

The thing that happened next is crystalized in my memory. My mom’s minivan had an automatic sliding door with a safety feature that wouldn’t let it open unless the car was in park. Well, Kyle forced it open anyway – the alarm buzzing like a freaking tornado siren. I was sitting in the bucket seat next to him. It’s amazing how much faster the ground speeds by with the door open than through the window. Kyle grabs on to the oh-shit handle and jumps out.

For three long seconds, I see Kyle’s legs working so fast they look like the blur of Roadrunner. And then I see his face go from hell yeah this is awesome to oh my god I’m gonna die.

Now you may laugh to read that this is the point at which Kyle says he begins to regret his decision. (Really?) He says that if at this moment he had just let go of the handle and rolled off the road he would have been fine.

But he didn’t.

He decided to try to use the handle to leverage himself back up into the car as it began to drag him along. Such a feat is nearly impossible. It didn’t work. Kyle’s legs got sucked under the minivan. He lost his grip. He hit the road.

There was one soft, sickening thump as our back right tire went over him like a large, squishy speedbump.

Robert stopped the van. I put my hands over mouth and watched my entire future change in the space of a blink. “Oh my god,” was all I could say. We killed Kyle. How the hell am I going to tell his mom?

About six seconds later, Kyle hopped up and yelled, “I’m okay!”

You should really hear Kyle tell his side of it. I’ve heard him describe in slow motion how he didn’t have enough time to roll out of the way but he could see the wheel coming soon enough to scoot first his family jewels and his face to the side so that his torso got the brunt of it. He had pieces of asphalt stuck in the road-rash on his bum and tire tread-marks diagonal from hip to shoulder. I have pictures to prove it, but I don’t think hub-a-dub wants everyone on the internet to see his ass. (Although, to be fair, it’s a very nice ass.)

He lived, in spite of the fact that we somehow thought it would be a good idea to pour Bactine over his raw wound. And to not tell my mom until the next morning. For some reason, we thought she might “overreact” and demand that he go to a hospital. Gee golly, parents sure know how to ruin teenagers’ fun.

So that’s how my brother ran over my husband – the husband that almost never was.

If you’re good little children, next time I’ll tell you about the time we found the snake in the chicken coup. Until then, you’ll have to content yourselves with the saga of Roomba’s naughtiness, the time I lost my toe, and the oldie Kayakeroos. Ta-ta now!

**As you can imagine, Robert and I soon learned not to tell Kyle he can’t do things that he shouldn’t be doing. And don’t ever, EVER, bet him a dollar. *gets an idea* Hey hub-a-dub, I bet you a dollar you can’t do all of the laundry from now until we’re 80…

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11 Things I Learned at DFWcon

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on February 28, 2011 at 4:47 PM

Just got back from the con last night, and man my head is spinning. Not only did I get my first requests (yes, plural!) for full manuscripts, but I also got requests for partials, met tons of awesome writers and almost a dozen amazing agents, had a blast with my writing BFFs, and learned enough good stuff to turn my brain into mush. So, let’s make your brain mush too!

1. The Gong Show is more entertaining than TV.

2. The Gong Show is also the most educational way to study queries. I learned more about query-writing in that first hour and a half than I have in a lifetime of classes, critiques, and articles. Fabulous.

3. When at a con, agents are pseudo celebrities, but nicer. (You can actually talk to them!)

4. Thanks to a fabulous class by Jessica Sinsheimer: I can put myself in the top percentile of query-ers just by following directions, being intelligent, and putting in the effort.

5. If you wear a hat, you are more memorable. (Jeff Posey’s got it down.)

6. My friends like to sleep with the room extraordinarily cold.

7. Writers’ conferences (or at least this one) are an incredible value and well worth the money.

8. Holding a glass in your hand at a cocktail party makes everything easier, even if you don’t drink from it. (Something to make you look less awkward.)

9. “High concept” is almost impossible to explain, but easy to recognize. Not all books are high concept. This is okay. Thanks, Colleen Lindsay.

10. “Portals happen.” –Amy Boggs

11. If you really want something, it is definitely worth hoping, worth overcoming fear, and worth taking risks. Dude, just go for it.

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