An odd problem. I've been working heavily on my novel lately both at my keyboard and in my head during any spare moment. The problem is that I am so ensnared in writer mode that I can't carry on a normal conversation anymore. I am constantly pausing to think about the best way to phrase EVERYTHING I say. Because of this I come off sounding very pretentious, not to mention the rather long silent interludes while I formulate my response.
I'm losing the vernacular!
I previously read a collection of Harlan Ellison short stories and enjoyed it very much. Such was not true for this pile of stuff. Oh, there were a couple gems, but the rest seem like first drafts written just after a bad break-up.
The straight science fiction stories take place in one dimensional worlds where rules come and go on a whim. The fantasy is rarely fantastic. Strong female characters are few and far between.
All that I might have overlooked. The biggest problem is that each story has an introduction. (Which I skipped until I had finished the story.) Some things are better left a mystery. The problem with the introductions wasn't what was said about the stories, but what they revealed about their author. An ego grown beyond even fame's justification.
I hope whatever fame I might achieve is gentler with my self esteem.
I have come to realize that a major problem with my self view is that I never had the delusion that I was going to be a great and famous writer. For most of my life I believed that I couldn't, nor would never be able to, write well. I believed that being a writer was something that you either were or were not.
Now that I understand the process of developing as a writer I see myself coming along nicely, though I can feel what Carlos Casteneda called the fourth enemy, old age, lurking in the shadows waiting to jump me. There is only so much time left to win what morsels of fame might come my way.
Thus I find myself longing for delusion. To be able to believe that the next novel will be the one that wins me that touch of immortality. The one that finds its target audience beyond my immediate friends and family. The Great American Novel of the post baby boom pre generation X literary cannon. Hell, even in delusionment my ambitions are pigeon-holed.
So without fame, why write? Because these stories are like rodents trying to gnaw their way out through my brain. It's write or go insane, and I'm just too anal-retentive to accept insanity.
Oh, the stories! The action, adventure, romance and finally the overwhelmed underdog triumphing over impossible foes. What more could you want? But there is a problem. I dislike fantasy. Always have, probably always will.
So then, what part of Mr. Potter's tales worm their way through my defenses of preference?
First, there are the characters. The complex relationships that develop between the friends over the series give new interest to every book. The emergence of minor characters, my favorite being Neville, to major players is something I've not seen in other series of books.
Second, and probably most importantly, a great villain. Just as Darth Vader is my favorite Star Wars character, the Harry Potter books would be nothing without the wonderfully evil Voldemort. And the fact that he is done in finally by his human flaws and fears is a wonderful capper on the series.
What I'm waiting to see for Ms. Rowling is; is there life after Harry Potter? I hope so, though as a writer, I can't imagine starting all over after investing so much time and energy into creating such a rich and wonderful world.
So I finally submitted my first novel to a literary agent. I've been putting it off for nearly a year, going back and forth about how good I thought the book was. I should have done this a year ago. I haven't heard back yet, and that's not that point. I'm prepared for rejection. I've had it before. I'll have it again. It's just the complete and utter release of tension of having one less bit of drama in my head.
Of course it's not like the release of tension that comes from, lets say, sitting in a hot tub. This is more like the relief you get when your irritable bowel switches from constipation to diarrhea. The relief that just keeps coming till you are left as an empty shell.
OK, I lied. If it gets rejected I will cry. But I'll get over it and submit again.
There is nothing surprising in the story of this book. What is surprising is that this novel is written as a sort of free-form journal and that the format enhances the story rather than detracts from it. I've read several novels written in journal form, both structured and unstructured, and liked very few of them. For the ones I didn't like it seemed to me that the story had been forced into the format like a pair of uncomfortably small shoes. In the good ones, like Ms. Listfield's, the story seems to be organic to the format, in this case reinforced by the lack of quotation marks.
Throughout the book we maintain the impression that this isn't a book that was “written” but was jotted down over a period of time. However, when reflecting back you see the well-plotted story structure. Three acts. Character development. The whole deal.
I enjoyed reading this book very much. The story wasn't great, but they way it was presented was.
IT WAS GONNA BE LIKE PARIS
Emily Listfield
Published: 1984
Cost: $1
Bought at: SF Public Library big book sale
