In the course researching some new passages for my WIP, I've been reading the letters from Charles Dickens. While I can recite the majority of Jane Austen's books backwards and forwards and know her life story by heart, I know relatively little about Charles Dickens. I'm embarrassed to admit that I've actually never read a Dickens novel in full. I'm not sure why that is. I think I've always assumed they would be dry or boring or hard to read. I think that might be the assessment of the average person when presented with a novel by an author in Victorian England. (I should clarify that I'm sure no one reading this blog would consider themselves an 'average reader'.)
As I've read the letters, they bring to mind.... television. Soap operas or programs like The OC actually. The drama! The gossip! The romance and break ups!
Here's the story in brief: Our friend Charles Dickens is dating Maria. Maria and Charles have a mutual friend named Marianne, who has somehow come between them. Here are a few brief passages from the letters from Charles to Maria:
"...you certainly totally and entriely misunderstand my feeling with regard to her...That she (Marianne) has for some reason thrown herself in my way I could plainly see...for instance on the night of the play I could not get rid of her; God knows that I have no pleasure in speaking to her..."
"I have often said before and I say again I have borne more from you than I do believe any creature breathing ever bore from a woman before."
"I never have loved and I never can love any human creature breathing but yourself."
Has The Hills or Days of Our Lives ever had such a plot? How truly exciting! And it gets better...
Charles and Maria made up, but her parents decide Dickens was too poor for their little girl and sent her off to finishing school in France. So despite his promises that he would never love anyone else, he met and married Catherine Hogarth, who bore him ten (10!!) children. To reward this, he went off and shacked up with an actress, Nelly Ternen, who was almost thirty years his junior. In fact, there are rumors that they had a child (who died in infancy) and that he actually died at Nelly's place but was secretly transported somewhere else so no one knew.
See?!? Drama! Sex! Intrigue!
Do you think that the Classics could shake off their staid reputations and enjoy more popularity if the 'average' reader knew of their exciting roots? Is that why we are seeing so many books that are fictionalized accounts of real people that were once consider boring (particularly Austen, Dickens, the Tudors, and so on)?
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Writing for a living
I had one of those head in the hands moments yesterday, where I was overwhelmed by the desperation to have the whole novel-writing situation turn into something real. I have those moments regularly but what set me off on this one was is the state of my house. It really needs to be cleaned. And I'm not talking the Martha-Stewart-I-really-must-dust-the-baskets kind of cleaning, but more like I-can't-see-through-the-shower-door-for-all-the-soap-scum kind of cleaning.
My house used to be cleaner than this, for those six glorious months that my full-time job was writing. Every day, I would write for four or five hours while my children were at school, leaving an hour or two before they got home for real life stuff, like cleaning and cooking and laundry. Which meant that I could focus on my family and myself (hobbies and reading and more writing) on the evenings and weekends. I've never been happier than that time.
I know I was extraordinarily lucky to have the opportunity, and it was only because we had just moved from England to Texas. My husband had a job that paid enough to make it on his salary for a while (we have rarely had two incomes due to college, maternity, etc. and as a result, are very good at living within our means). And I had such a specialized field (Food Research & Development) that I knew it was unlikely the crappy economy would cough up a job for me in my new city. It made sense for me to finally put my fingers where my mouth was and write the novel I've been talking about for almost two decades. So I did.
But it was too good to last. Ballet lessons and rising food costs and children who keep outgrowing shoes meant that I needed to get a job. Now that I work about four days a week (including Saturdays), something has to give. And it isn't going to be the writing. Result: dirty house. And empty fridge. And thank you notes that are a month overdue. And abandoned craft projects. And dead plants.
I think every writer has the dream that they could give up the day job and write for a living. But I think everyone's definition of that is different, dependent on their lifestyle. Honestly, if I could make ten or twenty thousand a year, I could write for a living. There is a lot I'm willing give up to be able to do my dream job.
So hear that, Universe? I don't have big wants. It doesn't have to be a six-figure deal (not that I would turn it down, of course). Anything you want to send my way would be great. I'd appreciate it. Thanks.
What about you? Knowing the reality of the publishing world and what it pays, how likely is it that you could give up the day job if you got a book deal?
My house used to be cleaner than this, for those six glorious months that my full-time job was writing. Every day, I would write for four or five hours while my children were at school, leaving an hour or two before they got home for real life stuff, like cleaning and cooking and laundry. Which meant that I could focus on my family and myself (hobbies and reading and more writing) on the evenings and weekends. I've never been happier than that time.
I know I was extraordinarily lucky to have the opportunity, and it was only because we had just moved from England to Texas. My husband had a job that paid enough to make it on his salary for a while (we have rarely had two incomes due to college, maternity, etc. and as a result, are very good at living within our means). And I had such a specialized field (Food Research & Development) that I knew it was unlikely the crappy economy would cough up a job for me in my new city. It made sense for me to finally put my fingers where my mouth was and write the novel I've been talking about for almost two decades. So I did.
But it was too good to last. Ballet lessons and rising food costs and children who keep outgrowing shoes meant that I needed to get a job. Now that I work about four days a week (including Saturdays), something has to give. And it isn't going to be the writing. Result: dirty house. And empty fridge. And thank you notes that are a month overdue. And abandoned craft projects. And dead plants.
I think every writer has the dream that they could give up the day job and write for a living. But I think everyone's definition of that is different, dependent on their lifestyle. Honestly, if I could make ten or twenty thousand a year, I could write for a living. There is a lot I'm willing give up to be able to do my dream job.
So hear that, Universe? I don't have big wants. It doesn't have to be a six-figure deal (not that I would turn it down, of course). Anything you want to send my way would be great. I'd appreciate it. Thanks.
What about you? Knowing the reality of the publishing world and what it pays, how likely is it that you could give up the day job if you got a book deal?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Someone get me a hammer!
Platform is getting to be a dirty word in my house. My husband, because he doesn't pore over the (seeming) millions of agent and writer blogs and sites that I do every day, just does not get the concept of platform. He can't understand the shameless self-promotion that a writer must engage in to be successful. Everytime I mention the word, he shrugs and gives me the 'whatever' look.
I must admit, I've been sweating this. I'm so busy revising my WIP for the three (yes three - squeee!) agents that want to see it that I just haven't had time to blog. I don't Twitter and I use Facebook only for keeping in touch with friends and family. I've moved twelve times in twenty years which means that I have a very large, geographically diverse network of friends and colleagues, but I've not developed it as a tool for promotion. And truthfully, I don't like the idea of doing something just because I should, particulary if it doesn't feel natural.
So it was with great relief that I read Nathan Bransford's blog on the subject (I also saw it on Shelli's fantastic blog).
A few days ago, I was contacted by the fiction editor at the magazine that has published a few of my short stories. She wanted to know if I was interested in writing a three-part serial for them (about 12,000 words), or maybe just submitting a few more short stories. As this is a well-known woman's magazine in the UK with a high circulation (350,000), it would be great exposure. And I started to think, maybe I should just focus on writing to build my platform, at least for now.
I must admit, I've been sweating this. I'm so busy revising my WIP for the three (yes three - squeee!) agents that want to see it that I just haven't had time to blog. I don't Twitter and I use Facebook only for keeping in touch with friends and family. I've moved twelve times in twenty years which means that I have a very large, geographically diverse network of friends and colleagues, but I've not developed it as a tool for promotion. And truthfully, I don't like the idea of doing something just because I should, particulary if it doesn't feel natural.
So it was with great relief that I read Nathan Bransford's blog on the subject (I also saw it on Shelli's fantastic blog).
A few days ago, I was contacted by the fiction editor at the magazine that has published a few of my short stories. She wanted to know if I was interested in writing a three-part serial for them (about 12,000 words), or maybe just submitting a few more short stories. As this is a well-known woman's magazine in the UK with a high circulation (350,000), it would be great exposure. And I started to think, maybe I should just focus on writing to build my platform, at least for now.
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