Seriously. Everyone in the world must read this.

Speaking as someone who has my novel open in the background while I surf the web and try to catch up on all the blogs I want to read, go read this.
You’re missing our if you don’t.

Inspiration strikes like a thermonuclear warhead!

I have had a brainstorm. That’s like a brainfart, but it makes actual sense.
See, lately, as you might have noticed, I have been having some trouble writing. And now, I have finally figured out why that is.
You see, when I started my Monster Book of Doom, I had a pretty clear idea of what was going to happen. But in the process of actually writing it, the whole feel of the stoyr has changed. I’ve gone back so many times and rewritten things that I no longer know what the central plot actually is. Hence, writer’s block.

So, to cure this most horrible of diseases, I have hit upon this: I am writing a detailed – and I do mean detailed – plot summary. Chapter-by-chapter he-did-she-did-this-happened and why. It’s like an old legend – he went there and did this and this is why, and so this happened.
As I’m writing – I’m only at Chapter 2 – I can actually feel the plot crystallizing in my mind, becoming if not set in stone, at least set in wax. It might melt and re-form later, but at least I don’t feel like I have a Hydra by the tail anymore.

I’ve never been an outliner, you see. My previous stories (all part of a monster of a saga involving much drama, many beautiful people and a practically infinite number of things happening for no apparent reason) were all very organic. They happened, more than they got written. But while a seven-thousand page multi-fandom fic involving Captain Picard, the Zerg (Starcraft), Spock, the Elves (Tolkien’s version), Gandalf, Data, sentient spaceships, vampires, people from another dimension, gods, demons, evil gods, suicidal immortals revered as gods, drugs and the sexual morals of someone who’s read way, way too many bodice-ripper romances, was great fun to write, not to mention a great way to spend the years between nine and nineteen, it didn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.

But this one has a plot, and I happen to think it’s a pretty damn good one. I just have to figure out what parts to include, since some of the things I’ve done either don’t fit the plot, or actually contradict pretty much everything else.
So, my Writing To-Do-List runs as so:

* Figure out plot.
* Decide whether antag is good or Evil (very important)
* Finish Plot Summary of Doom
* Rewrite Parts that don’t work while preserving parts that do.
* Edit Book
* Query Agent
* Get Published.
* Die happy

*dances around the office happily*

I am no longer flailing about! Well, I am flailing about, but now I’m flailing about with a plan!

Age-Banding books and why it’s a bad idea.

I was seven when I started reading in my second language (that would be English). Within six months I had graduated from Heidi to the ancient Greeks. My parents didn’t have many children’s books, so I read what we had – which was a lot of books. My love of reading came from being allowed to read what I wanted, when I wanted, and being praised for it. (yes, I’m a praisewhore)

Alright, some of the books I found might have been inappropriate – but putting age-bands on books isn’t going to stop that.

My brother started reading for pleasure when he was seventeen – because the girl he liked was a reader. She’s his wife now. The first book she gave him to read was Only You Can Save Mankind, by Terry Pratchett. It’s a children’s book. Imagine his reaction if it had had a big band on it saying ‘11+’ or something similar. He’d never have read it!

I believe a lot of people have already said that putting age-bands on books will discourage children who are just beginning to read – couldn’t agree more!

A book is not written for a certain age, it’s written for a certain mind. My grandmother and I both adore Harry Potter. A lot of grown-ups like Harry Potter. A lot of children like it too. How are you going to age-band it?

Are Philosopher’s Stone and Chamber of Secrets going to be 6+? And then you’d have to make Prisoner of Azkaban a 9+, of course. What about the later books, which become steadily darker? Deathly Hallows should be at least 13+ then.
But what about Yiorgos, who read the entire series in his tenth year? He’d never have started it, because the first two would be for ‘babies’ and the last lot would be for kids older than him.
Or are they going to band the entire series at one age?

The idea of agebanding is not only ridiculous, but counterproductive.

Go to http://www.notoagebanding.org/ to read what other people think.

Bad boyfriends

Writing is like a psychotic boyfriend, now that I think about it. You know the type – your parents love him, your sisters adore him, your friends think he might be ‘The One’ for you. And none of them notice the way you walk hunched over all of a sudden to keep your heart from breaking, and the bruises that are the reason why you suddenly wear a lot of make-up.

Writing is a lot like that. Sometimes, when it’s good, it’s very good. But when it’s bad, it’s worse than anything you can imagine.

I haven’t been writing for a year and a half now. It’s like being in heroin withdrawal, with the added bonus that your drug of choice doesn’t work anymore. I still love writing. I still love the feel of a character or a story inside of me, waiting to come to life. I imagine that that’s what being pregnant must feel like.
I just can’t do it anymore. I am filled with ideas, pregnant with them…but when the time comes to put them on a page, I just can’t do it. I write perhaps two pages and think to myself ‘what utter shit. Nobody will ever read this!’ and it’s true. Because somehow, somewhere, I seem to have lost the confidence in myself that made it possible, even when I despised myself and wanted to die, to write and get myself out of there. Writing was my lifeline back then, lifting me out of myself and taking me to places where I could be whoever I wanted to be, do anything I wanted to do. And it doesn’t work anymore.

Because since this thing happened to me – this thing that turned my art against me – writing has been my pain. Not my drug against the agony of life, but the cause of it. And that’s never happened to me before.

And I still want it. That’s the worst part. Maybe I’m just too stubborn for my own good, unwilling to give up on the idea that I will be a writer, or maybe I’m meant to get through this and go on writing, someday even something worth reading.

And that’s why writing is like a psychotic boyfriend. You know he’s only going to hurt you. You know he’s bad.
You know that ever time he says ‘it’ll never happen again,’ never is really only ‘until next time’ because it will happen again.
And you still go back.
Because despite what the world wants you to believe, there are more important things than being happy. And art is one of those things.

So. Writing

Is a lot like sex, actually. If not done right, it isn’t worth the effort. Because I have read some bad books, and I have had some bad sex, and the two are much alike.

Both times you end up staring at the ceiling wishing it were over already.

That was my quote for the day.

I’m at work. I am not enjoying it. I am not allowed to do any writing on the work PC – but I can surf the web. And of actual work there is no sign. Because it’s almost June, and it’s cold, and who goes on holiday in the middle of winter anyway?
Ah, well, such is life. And tonight, there will be a braai, and Albert, and booze (I have some kind of sweet cream-liqueur lined up. Albert has whisky.)

And tomorrow I will be back at work, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at 06:00. On a Sunday.
I hate my job.