Magic is so Magical

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on October 18, 2010 at 5:22 PM

The drive from Denton to College Station is long—almost four hours if you stop once for a break and don’t speed. The last time I made that drive before this weekend, I got home with my entire second novel pretty much conceptualized and plotted out. There’s something about the intimacy of a car ride, especially if you’re driving at night, that promotes conversation and serious thought. If you add a patient and nearly-silent husband who works wonderfully as a sound-board to that mix, for me it leads to planning what I’m going to write.

On our way back home last night, hub-a-dub was snoozing for the first half of the trip, but I still wanted to harness that forced think-time to work out kinks in my current project.

I should know by now that I can’t force magic.

I can beckon it, sure, but it’s a neat trick if I’m able to guide it. I’ve been slowly piecing together the ideas for The Seaman’s Daughter for years now, and it’s never come when I wanted it to or even when I expected it to. It’s a novel born of pure inspiration and seems to be resisting any sort of planning. So instead of being able to smooth out the wrinkles in Book Now, I began mentally writing a really awesome scene in Book Next, which doesn’t even have a title yet. (This is the horror novel I mentioned in my post about Lake City.)

It’s not that I’m complaining, exactly, because I know there are writers out there just praying for new ideas. I know I’m lucky to always be brimming with things I want to write. It’s just that they never come when they’re supposed to. Going back and forth between different projects might seem like a fine way of doing things (and it does make sense—work on what you feel like working on), but it really isn’t logical from a career standpoint.

Getting a book discovered and published takes a long time. If I write Book Now, I can have it in the works as I write Book Next. If I write two Books Whenever, I have to finish them both and then get them started on that long journey. Essentially, writing two books at once could end up delaying my entry to the industry by twice as long. That’s no good. The sooner I can begin calling myself an author instead of a writer, the sooner I can do what I love with no excuses, distractions, or defeats. I’m ready to get going, you know?

But still, if a scene hits me that strongly, I must write it. As much as it pains me to think about, it’s possible that The Seaman’s Daughter might not be willing to be written in a single chunk like my other books. I’m just gonna do my best and trust my gut. I’m off to type the scene I’ve already written in my head.

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How (Not) to Console Someone

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on October 13, 2010 at 1:55 PM

I have some experience with grief. Besides the obvious, I find myself being consoled more often than people die—every time I get a rejection. Didn’t win a contest? Consolation by friends. Editor sent stock rejection? Consolation by family. Agent said no? Consolation by critique group. Part of this industry is rejection; part of loving someone is being supportive. For me, that adds up to a lot of consolation on a regular basis. Everyone is different. Each person in my life responds to my bad news in a different way—all equally well-intended, of course. It’s really got me thinking. What is the best way to console someone?

Let me preface this by saying: if you happen to be reading this and realize that you’ve consoled me in one of the ways I discuss, please don’t worry. I’m an adult and I know very well that intentions are what matter. As a loved one of someone who’s grieving, there’s definitely a feeling of helplessness. In an effort to overcome that, we tend to say things that help us more than the one grieving, and that’s generally where we go wrong. But still, I would much rather have someone say something “incorrect” in an attempt to be kind and supportive than to say nothing at all.

I understand the instinct (I’m sure I’ve succumbed before too), but I don’t like being fed platitudes. When someone dies, for example, the first question is often, “Was it sudden?” If you say no, they say, “Well, at least it wasn’t unexpected and you had time to prepare.” As if “preparing” really makes it better. If you say yes it was sudden, they say, “At least they didn’t suffer.” Does that make it better? No. They’re still gone. Neither of these empty ideas are any real solace. And it’s generally an awkward thing to ask in my opinion. In my dad’s case, I never knew what to answer. Yes, it was expected—he basically had a terminal illness—but also no: it was sudden, too, the way it ended. Where’s the consolation there?

It’s very, very tempting. And perhaps sometimes appropriate. But generally, “I understand,” doesn’t work for me. No, you don’t. No one can understand what someone else is going through, and in the midst of grief, it ends up sounding belittling to that person’s sorrow. Likewise, “It could be worse” isn’t good. Really, that’s what the above statements are trying to say in a more subtle way. The fact that it could be worse doesn’t make it easier to cope.

How about advice? As with all of these examples, I’m sure there are times when it would be genuinely appropriate and much appreciated. Personally, I can’t stand unsolicited advice. “Look on the bright side,” is trite and denies the very real emotions that a grieving person might be feeling. I think it’s really unhealthy to bury negative emotions with positive ones. It’s like telling a person whose wife/brother/child/etc. just died, “Don’t be sad.” Really?

Whether the person in grief has lost a loved one, missed a job opportunity, sustained damage to their home, been personally injured, or whatever, ultimately, I think the only thing we can do that’s universally acceptable is just to listen, say “I’m sorry,” and mean it. Don’t you?

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Wedding Advice

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on September 21, 2010 at 5:27 PM

I’ve done a few blogs about decorating, home improvement, etc., but today I thought I would do a little blog about my advice to couples getting married. And really, I only have one…

Hire a wedding planner.

Now, those of you who know me personally are probably in shock, because I am pretty much the ultimate do-it-yourselfer. Seriously. But here’s what I didn’t realize until after the wedding: wedding planners don’t do the fun stuff—they do the shitty stuff. I didn’t get one because I knew exactly what I wanted for everything, from colors to cake design, and I didn’t want some craft-loving mini-me to take over with her/his ideas. But the truth is, a wedding planner does whatever you want them to do, whether that be planning all of the details or simply executing them. It’s the execution that’s what’s valuable.

You might be thinking, “But I don’t have enough money to hire a wedding planner!” My answer, in almost every case, would be that yes you do. Take part of your overall wedding budget and allocate it to a planner. Even if it means less guests, a cheaper venue, or an hors d’oeuvres buffet instead of a sit-down meal. It. is. worth. it.

You still get to pick your flowers. But when the florist messes them up and dyes them pink instead of dark burgundy to match the roses (like he promised), the wedding planner will crack some skulls and either get it fixed or get you a partial refund—so you don’t have to worry about it at your reception when it’s too late or on your way to your honeymoon.

And when the baker doesn’t put the cake topper on top of the cake, the wedding planner will be there before the guests to catch it and do so. Even if you have one of those venues that “takes care of everything,” trust me, they don’t. Someone will say, “We didn’t know if you wanted the topper on top of the cake or not.” I swear to Fruit Loops this happened to me. Wedding planner.

The only circumstance I can imagine that wouldn’t be worth hiring a wedding planner would be if your wedding is well under 100 people and at someone’s house, etc. If the budget is practically nonexistent, I can’t say increasing it is a good idea. But even if you think you don’t need a planner because your aunt/grandma/mother/sister/gay best friend or whatever does it for a living and has volunteered… I’d think really hard about that one. Because they’re guests too; they want to enjoy the party, not chew out the caterer. It’s these sorts of things that a professional planner will do, not take over the show. And speaking from first person, they’d be worth every penny.

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How to Give Critique (with poise)

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on September 10, 2010 at 3:18 PM

This is a sister post to my blog, How to Accept Critique (with poise). This is not a blog about the mechanics of what to watch out for (characterization, dialogue, adverb use, etc.). If that’s what you’re looking for, there are plenty of wonderful articles out there about the nuts and bolts of good writing and how to spot them—just Google it. This is a blog about the less talked-about aspects of what makes a critiquer useful.

Don’t you hate it when bloggers use clichés? Me too. Sorry. The golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Now, I don’t know that I want anyone doing things unto me, but I am amazed by how many people don’t give critique as they would like to receive it. This includes actually giving critique. If you go to a critique group, receive everyone’s suggestions, and don’t offer any advice or opinions in return… well, you’re a jerk. A drain. You’re the vampire. Knock it off. (Don’t give me that, “but I’m no expert” crap. Every opinion has use-value.)

That said, there is perhaps something better than the golden rule. Because truly, different people have different ideals of how they would like to receive critique. Person A might want you to cut to the chase, give them the worst of it, and leave your happy comments in the margins. Person B might want you to be gentle, start off easy, and help them build their confidence. Both are perfectly acceptable, except for when Person A treats Person B his/her ideal way and makes him/her cry. Get it? So let’s call it the platinum rule: Do unto others as they want you to. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?

Nonetheless, it does speak to my most useful suggestion: find a good critique group and stick to it. Part of what makes a good critique group run like clockwork are those who I call “the regulars.” No, this has nothing to do with fiber. These are the folks that are there week after week, month after month, year after year, participating fully and getting to know each other and each other’s writing like their own family members. This is particularly useful if one or more members are bringing in longer stories and novels chapter by chapter. It’s hard to critique something in the middle of a complicated plot, so reading previous sections really helps. (It also saves time to not have to give a long backstory each week.)

Another benefit to knowing your fellow members well is that you learn their skill levels. The platinum rule practically demands this, because there’s little use in editing for grammar if a writer is struggling with basic plot structure. To be the most useful to him/her, you really need to know where they stand in the spectrum. Novice, intermediate, professional? Critique accordingly. That might seem “biased,” but it is all about being the most useful to each individual writer that you can be. This means that your critique style should change according to the person and material being critiqued. Every. single. time.

Finally, a word about courtesy. To be a decent critiquer, you have to respect the other members of the group and their work, even if it’s not up your alley. This means turning off your phone, spitting out your gum, not talking socially during someone else’s time, not reading a book, and not leaving early. Everybody has days you need to come late or leave early. It happens; it’s life. But on those days, be considerate and don’t ask for critique. If you can’t return the favor to everyone else, it’s rude to ask them to work for you. And it should go without saying, but never, never make your suggestions personal or about anything other than the piece of work at hand.

If you follow these tips, you’ll be well on your way to being a key member in your critique group in no time. Happy critiquing!

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Leaving a Mark

Posted on September 22, 2011 by Annie Neugebauer

Originally posted on September 13, 2010 at 2:23 PM

What is it about history that makes us want to leave our mark? When we were in Colorado, we stopped at a really neat historical ghost town that had lots of buildings still standing (though on their last leg). As I was marveling at the age, beauty, and atmosphere of it all, I suddenly noticed on the side of a house where dozens of people had carved names and dates into the wood. My automatic reaction was one of mild outrage. How dare these people ruin history with their vandalism? Have they no respect?

But then a quieter thought sank into my mind. It had to do with the way history seems to become sanctified once it’s about a century old. What about the people who built these houses in the middle of these stunningly beautiful mountains? What right did they have to ruin the natural beauty with creations of their own? Had they no respect for their surroundings? If someone were to do this now—build a village in a beautiful, isolated natural landscape—we would judge them poorly for it. Why does the fact that this happened years ago make it not only okay, but worth preserving?

This is when the quietest thought of all came to me. Perhaps, just maybe, it was all okay. The intrusion on nature, the preservation of random history, the vandalism of that preservation, the tourism… all of it. It wasn’t evil or blasphemous or sanctified or holy. It just was. Simple as air.

There are thousands, perhaps millions, of history buffs, museum curators, historical societies, and bookkeepers who would disagree with me, but I simply don’t feel passionately about preserving the past, and I don’t think that makes me a bad person. Don’t get me wrong; I would never vandalize any property, but that’s because I think you should leave others’ things alone, not because I think the past is sacred. Not even my own past. I’ve never been one to reread diaries or feel unable to change the original version of a poem. In fact, when I get around to it, I plan on burning my old journals as a sort of ritual to let them go. I don’t want that weight trailing me forever.

I certainly don’t have anything against other people being passionate about history. I understand the practical need for history (personal and societal), and when you get down to it no one can rid themselves of the past because it makes us who we are. I even enjoy history as a passing interest (I like museums and ghost towns as much as the next person). But I don’t believe in grasping onto it as if it were our savior. I believe in letting it be a dynamic, fluid force that molds us as people. History is not a textbook or a preserved building; it’s a catalyst. One that can’t be pinned down.

Perhaps this wasn’t all so clearly articulated in that one moment in the ghost town, but it passed in an instant and changed the way I saw the graffiti. It was different then. It was less about vandalism and more about the need to live past death—although I still felt mildly annoyed that the markings ruined the atmosphere. But ultimately, the people who built this village left their mark. Truly, were the tourists with their penknives any different?

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