Write, Allyson, so I can read!

Here are two painting drabbles, at the 11th hour:

Un dimanche après-midi à l'Ile de la Grande Jatte

Pictures were sized to go neatly on the wall over the fireplace or the couch. They were part of the background, like wallpaper. Then there it was. It took up a whole wall. When I walked close, it became colored blobs. As I backed up, the figures resolved. I looked at it from one side and it looked different. I tried sneaking up on it. I watched the light move across the picture. I wanted to run through the museum and see all the paintings and then find more paintings. The anonymous background prints on people's walls now annoyed me.

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I really got a lot out of reading the drabbles the last few weeks, but I just have not been able to do them myself. This week I think it's residual from last week.

And last week, well, what can I say? I guess I'm not ready to stop lying to myself yet. I did try, but it was too much, and I deleted it before it ever left RAM.

But man, some good writing here.

Am I ever gonna be able to talk about writing a book without feeling like I'm playing the grand piano?

It's about being proud that I finished a novel, but vowing that the next one will be better, and honing my craft to make it so.

And that's where we split. I've loved every book I've ever written; I have never felt any desire or impulse or anything else that would make me look at Plainsong or And Then Put Out The Light and say, why yes, this is wonderful, but I can do better. Better than what? I'm a storyteller, it's what I do, it's what makes me sit down and write. Better than what? I genuinely don't get it. Am I supposed to be competing with myself? Telling myself this one's OK, but by God, the next one...

Never happen. I wouldn't write a word if I felt that way. I write because I'm a writer. I sit down and start telling the story because there's a story, it's in me, I'm telling it, the end, just like breathing. It's what I do.

I guess I'll never understand any other way.

edit: ALLYSON! Get your bad self into that chair and write something!

Am I supposed to be competing with myself? Telling myself this one's OK, but by God, the next one...

I'm not saying that you should be, just that it's the way I am. And I don't think I'm any less a writer because of it. To me, when I love something, I want to compete at it--with myself, with others, or both. It's how I'm wired.

Oh, there's no question of judgment there, Susan - I'm literally trying to figure out what you're saying, because the concept is so completely alien to me. It's whatever works for us, any one of us. For me, striving for some ideal of perfection that I was pretty sure was unattainable would shut me down as a writer entirely.

Whereas to me that's the whole beauty of it--that there's always something more to strive for.

Huh. I have a lot of respect for the work I've done, you know? I'm trying to imagine telling myself that the stories I've been telling are somehow insufficient. To me, that would be disrespecting myself, diminishing the work I've already done.

I think I'd burn my manuscripts and never write another word.

I'm curious now, about how other writers out there see the things they've already written, individual approaches. I know what mine is, I think (not sure) I know what Susan's is, I've had a glimpse of ita's.

Anyone? What are some other individual writer's roads out there?

I don't strive for a mythical ideal of perfection, but I'm more with Susan in wondering where I could do better, at least in terms of execution.

Haven't you ever finished a piece, Deb, and thought, "Huh. I could have streamlined that scene, or enriched that character?"

For me, there's a distinction between story and the actual execution of it, too. I know when I was acquiring, I read a lot of manuscripts that had enormous potential, story-wise, and were written horribly. And vice versa -- manuscripts where the author had an elegant command of language, but essentially didn't have a story to tell.

I like everything I've ever written to one degree or another, because my interest in the characters and the situation is what motivated me to write it in the first place. But there are a lot things that I look at now and think, Yeah, I could have been clearer. More concise, or more descriptive, or whatever. I think as writers we all hone our skills over time.

I'm with Deb, though, in not having an ideal of perfection. For me, the only ideal is writing things that I want to write, and enjoy writing, and being paid for them, which is part and parcel of having a readership who wants to read them. It's not unreachable, but it's tough.

Well, in my mind I'm not telling myself that what I've already done is insufficient, though I realize how it could sound like that. On one level it's just a basic philosophy of mine that there's always more to learn, always room for improvement. And on another level, it's about setting challenges for myself. E.g. with Lucy I was daring myself to actually finish a novel. With Anna, I looked at my writing and said, "Susan, you've proven you can finish a book, but if you really want to make a go of this, you need to get better at plotting. So don't shirk that really plotty sequel you have in mind for Anna's character--go for it, and do it right."