The blog of fantasy fiction author and writer Tarah L. Wolff

Billy Collins is coming to Bemidji Minnesota this September!! WooHoo!

I am sooo excited. If you haven’t yet seen them on youtube you need to go watch These By Billy Collins. There are many to see/hear and they are absolutely incredible. I can’t wait to hear him live. And, is it just me or does he sound like Kevin Spacey when he played the serial killer in Seven? And doesn’t that just add another awesome element of dimension or what!

Stage two of The Talking Stick

Everything is in a digital file. Poetry, Creative nonfiction and fiction. There is no more scanning or typing to do (Thank God). Sharon has gone through the digital file and made as many corrections as she can there. The judges have already returned to us the first and second place finishers in all three categories. All that was left to do last Sunday night was for me to sit down and figure out how the book is going to read, which poem goes where, which story goes where. Made all the more difficult that we want to start everything that goes on to more than one page on a right hand page.

It took me four hours.

Not even kidding. Four hours. I started at 11pm and ended up still sitting there at 3am. It was the hardest book I have yet to put together in my life. It is strictly because of our standards of excellence and the fact that we’re getting more and more writing every year. That all translates into “less filler for the book.” Less easy going and blah poetry about nothing etc. We encourage and published clear-voiced pieces that are well described, as short/cut/tight as possible. And we love stuff that ends with a clear message. No, I don’t mean “Kill Hitler!” what I mean by a clear message is that there is a beginning, a middle and an end that translates into something, anything. An emotion, an idea, anything, anything at all without the writer TELLING IT TO US.

And that translates into . . .

A book that was damn hard to put together. I mean, my God, I’m not going to be caught putting a poem about baby’s dying across from a creative nonfiction that is a humorous slant on cabin life. Hell no. Everything this year was clear and imrpessive, but that means everything this year had to be very carefully handled. What a job!

But what a great job to have! I can’t believe I’m saying the quality of the work was so good it actually made my job harder. lol. What a great problem to have.

There was bad too though.

Don’t get me wrong. There is always truly horrible writing that I remain sitting with my mouth open while reading it wondering why the hell the writer thought anyone would want to read it. Half of the creative nonfiction submitted this year I crossed off (with red ink) at least the first and the last paragraphs. Simply put I eliminated the stupid back story that should start NO story (if back story is necessary and, it really shouldn’t be with a word limit of 1,000, then it should only be brought it when its relevant to the action.) and then I eliminated the part when the writer decided to tell us what we learned because of course all readers (especially editors) are too stupid to get it.

What writers don’t seem to understand.

I can imagine them. Flaunting along in tied died t-shirts in their minds as they expand their horizons and click off the editor and slip into that creative bliss where everything is genius. And then they write words that absolutely ooze like honey, thing like, “Expanded into/Void of oppressive/Convulsed noise/Weeping . . . Weeping . . . Weeping/Dreams shattered/A blink and I knew/I was alive!” Wow, really? This is the best you can do? What the hell did that even fucking mean? And, for that matter, who ever said that I cared about whether or not you felt alive? Do you understand that I don’t care? I couldn’t care less actually. You’re job as a writer is to make me give a fuck. Figure it out.

The number one rule that most “hobby” writers don’t seem to get is that writing is half creative process and half intellectual work. It seems they all throw out their brain, their working common sense, for this lofty bull shit hope that you can become a writer by writing what you think is poetic.

Most people who sit down to write a “poem” are always lacking the most important thing. Heart.

The impressive pieces, every one of them, start by the writer being inspired by an emotion. From there, not all writers create anything that’s worth reading (I can’t tell you how many pieces that we don’t put in the book but they had a great idea) the inspiration is the most creative part of it all and it does not create something worth reading. Your intellectual self, your ability to step back and allow that story to shine (or that feeling, that emotion) without ever telling us how to think, is how good writing begins. It takes clear thinking and an absolutely hated eye to get a piece cut down to the only words that matter. Very few things that I’ve read have ever reached this point of brilliant tightness and almost no creative nonfiction that I’ve seen has ever achieved this.

The ability to step back and clearly assess your own writing.

You need to be objective. So often I hear “I wrote it for a class” and I think, “Wow that must be an exciting read!” The basis of your work must be a seed that inspires you. You must have a clear and present knowing of what you are trying to achieve when you’re writing that piece. If you’re not excited about it, God knows, no reader will ever be.

I had my writers’ meeting today. It’s always so strange trying to tell people about my book. Even other writers. . . Maybe especially other writers. They hear the massive amount of numbers, the hours and hours of work, which I barely describe because I don’t want to sound like I’m gloating, and they seem to assume that it must not be much. Nobody has said that, nobody has said much of anything accept polite things, they are supportive, but it is the little they say that makes it hard. But, I think, what could they say? I mean, if someone came up to me and talked about such a massive writing project (and I hadn’t done something like Embraced by Darkness) I don’t think I would be that impressed either. I really think that I would probably not think very much it would be a, “Oh wow, that’s great! Good luck!” But I would be thinking that it is most likely crap, probably 99.9% likely to be crap.

Now, if it were something different. Something shorter, something about a girl my age, something safe; now that would make more sense. That would definitely be more in the realm of getting good responses, better encouragement. Now that would be something people could wrap their head around.

Now, I started this blog for me and for anyone who might want to know what it was like toiling through Embraced by Darkness. But I really don’t think I’ve gotten that done yet. I think you would read through my posts, get a glimpse of my every day life, and that would be cool if you didn’t know me but liked my book. And, you would get a bit of a glimpse of how this last push through Embraced by Darkness was like. You know, it’s about doubt. That’s obvious. That is number one. But if I asked you, “What was it like?” What would you say? I don’t think you would know. Not really.

So, what was it like?

And maybe that’s the point, isn’t it? I have so much trouble putting it into words. I would tell you that working on Embraced by Darkness was work. A lot of work. The great, fun, creative part of stretching and writing is such a small part of the real writing process. If you want to become a truly spectacular writer, so little of it is actual writing. So much of it is intellectual problem solving (ya know, the other part of your brain.) But that’s just the mechanics of it all. My personal experience with Embraced by Darkness was very hard but something so satisfying and challenging that I wish I could devote my life to being a writer.

But I have kept my day job. A girl’s gotta eat.

That is the most frustrating thing. Going back to being a writer, to being the writer/worker of Embraced by Darkness, has been the hardest part for me. From worrying about food, money, hell whether I can afford to even get my hair cut, finishing that next web project and, then trying to devote all of myself to my book without distraction, is some weeks, just not possible. All writers will already know this part so I am dottling again but I need you to know that besides the doubt there was always the essential frustration that I was never working on my book enough. Never going back to it enough and always wishing I was there, working on it, above all other things. So rarely did I get the opportunity where I was motivated, not trashed from the rest of the day, not exhausted from the rest of the week and with the time, to work on it.

You’re a writer. You know that time can be made.

Especially if a writer is willing to sacrifice sleep, tv and downtime. Writing had to become my obsession. Embraced by Darkness could not be work to me no matter how much it felt like work, it had to be the thing I wanted to be doing, not matter what. That was damned hard.

Especially so close to the end.

Like I am right now. So close. So few hours left for that last push. I am frustrated because I haven’t touched it for three weeks. I am hesitant because I’m afraid I’m wrong, that the book requires more work than that and I just can’t bare that consideration yet. The very idea of such a gut wrenching disappointment as it being farther from done than I think it is. Is absolutely unbearable. That’s just how it is and how it’s always going to be.

It’s in my very make up to expect the worse, to understand perfectly that my book will never be good enough. Will never be done. No matter how hard I work it is in my nature to never expect my work to be good enough.

Doubt.

So, you know about doubt. But what I haven’t told you is that the characters of this book, and the other books I’m working on, are with me always. I am often thinking of them. I rarely go a day without them. Right now, I’m working on Embraced by Darkness and, I swear to God, I see a flip of Osondrous’ blond hair out of the corner of my eye sometimes. I can almost hear what Karalay sounds like. And they come to me often and so randomly. The book I’m working on becomes a large portion of my life that no one knows about. No one could fathom the amount of time that I’ve spent with them, outside of working on the book. No one knows.

Embraced by Darkness has been my absolute satisfaction. I have taken such incredible pride and joy in working on this story. Their story. I feel privileged to have been a part of this incredible thing. No matter if anyone reads it. It doesn’t matter. I feel like I was the one chosen to write this story, to take upon this incredible undertaking, and I am very proud of that. I hope when people do read this book, if that ever happens, that they will feel that extent of respect. I feel as though the refugees of this time came to me and asked me to write their story. As terrified as I am of doing it unflinchingly and with great awareness as to their incredible strength, I know it must be written and I am the only one that this story was told to.

My mom flew down to Oklahoma for a few days and we just drove home. Miss Joseph terribly already and missed out (by only 2 days) the laying of brand new carpet throughout the majority of our house. It sucks royally, we’ve worked on that house for 3 1/2 years and that carpet was a true turning point of the finishing of the whole thing. Tough not to see it when it first went in, but I’ll live. To add insult to injury I don’t know if you’ve been around the midwest at all the past week, or even watched the news but the entirety of the midwest was hit, all of a sudden like (no one forecasted it), by a gigantic, slow, north moving storm. So, I got to drive through the whole fucking thing. 1,100 miles, 18 hours of hydroplaning and gripping the wheel like I was going to save our lives. I’m still totally exhausted two days later.

To add Insult to Injury (again)

We’ve been having some hard times in Oklahoma. We’ve been betrayed and back stabbed by someone we thought was our friend. We have been receiving threats to such an extent that I am a heart beat away from calling the police and filing a report. Joseph has bought himself a gun and has a conceal and carry license. We both live a little bit now in wait for the final conclusion to this whole thing. You may notice that I don’t sound scared. I’ve learned well in my life that the louder the asshole is and the worse the lies he claims: the bigger the pussy he actually is. And, in this case, that’s absolutely correct. Joseph and I are both waiting for him to back up his threats but neither of us expect him to ever have the balls to do it. The threats stopped for a while but the moment I left my house to drive back north he started in on threatening Joseph again.

Really? Scared of a girl, huh?

Well, I don’t blame him, if I was him, after everything that he’s said about me, I would be scared of me too. He’s attacked everything about our lives, our jobs, even our house and our loyalty to each other. He claims that our lives are horrible and that he’s amazingly happy. That he has an incredible job where he’s making a fortune compared to our measly salaries. That his house is worth twice what ours is and that includes everything that he owns, right down to his cars and his wife and child. Joseph and I are looking at each other and we have to laugh. Because if we’re so poor and our lives are so horrible when we’re actually making more money than he is, our cars are worth more, our house is worth more (and I’m not even going to get into the asshole’s excessive drug and alcohol abuse) and we have such a great relationship that we actually trust each other. Isn’t he actually saying then that our worst is not even the best that he can do? I guess it’s a good thing that he’s happy then. It’s unbelievably sad and I’ve never pitied anyone more. When we don’t reply, he thinks he’s won and we haven’t truly replied yet, not like we could. He may want to hurt us, but we can’t be so cruel as to rub our incredible fortune in finding each other into his face. I want to be that bitch but I’m just not. So Joseph and I bite our tongues and hope he’s not stupid enough to force us to pull the trigger.

So here is a toast to every lying piece of shit trailer trash that you were ever stupid enough to trust. Take it from me, if there is a creature like this in your life, arm yourself and sleep well, because everybody else knows that they’re lying dog shit too. Regardless of what they say about you. And we all know that people that deserve something wicked coming to them, always get it in the end. Get as far away as you can, because assholes like that tend to pass what they have coming right on to everything around them, especially their friends and the people that they love.

Not great for work on the book though.

Nope, been too damned busy for work on the book. I have several folks I’ve contacted through Deviantart now that are awaiting my reply about their doing a commission. But, I know the only way the commission could ever be done is if they read the book first and it’s just not ready yet! Damnit! I need to work on it and I have the changes at my left elbow just waiting for me. There actually aren’t a lot, no more than a few hours of work (and you know by now that a few hours of work for me on this beast is literally nothing in comparison to how much time I’ve already spent). But I’m just still so shot from the drive and I want a cigarette too because I feel like shit even though I’m not a smoker. (Boyfriend’s a smoker, sometimes it’s hard not to have one too.)  On top of all that I have one HUGE weekend coming up.

I gotta pay the bills somehow and I’m meeting some folks I did a website design for to show them how to use it etc. I think I’m becoming more and more of the a-typical writer. I do fine with people but I loathe gatherings; they exhaust me, and after that drive all I want to do is curl up at home for two weeks and accomplish absolutely nothing.

But I’m going to try after I write this!

I am going to work on my book at least a little today before my mom gets home from work. Tonight my aunt is coming over and we’re having my Minnesota birthday party after my golden birthday (turned 24 on the 24th of February) in Oklahoma. First time I was without my mom on my birthday, I love her and it was tougher than I thought it would be. Weird how when everything in your life either dies or changes how we revert back to the kids in us and just want our moms on our birthdays. I certainly did.

My aunt (Sharon), my mom (Marilyn), and I are all on the Editorial board for The Talking Stick again this year. Mom just as a substitute in case one of the other three people on the board can’t make it, or to be the deciding vote on something the five of us can’t agree on. It’s a good job and we all like it despite the massive amount of work. Over 160 writers submitted this year (most of them at least 3 things) and the stack of submissions looks like over a ream of paper. Insane and cool. After my birthday dinner and maybe some presents (lol, that’s a real joke, my family would never let anybody go without presents on their birthday, sometimes I feel like a spoiled brat, but then I remember.) we’re going to sit down and compare notes like we usually do before the big meeting when we decide what to put in the book. It helps refresh our memories on everything and think about what’s going to the judges this year too.

It’s a gigantic job but I like it every year and I’m always proud to be a part of it.

Sitting beside me on the desk is the product that I have created over the last few days. A little note pad with five pages, fronts and backs, covered with my bedtime scrawl that only I can understand. Notes written down, trying to cover everything in as few a words as possible without losing what I thought, at the time, had to be changed in Embraced by Darkness. I’m reading my book now you know.

I almost announced it when I got the book from lulu a couple of weeks ago. I bought two copies, the next step toward the book being almost finished. It’s over six hundred pages in pocket size. It cost more but I wanted desperately to see my book in the form of the paperback size that fills up every book store. It’s bigger then the uncut version of The Stand, but seeing it like this is really a wonderful thing.

I started reading it at night.

I started reading it every night, keeping a notepad beside me to write changes and things I couldn’t forget. At first glance I was disappointed. There are missing words, misspelled words, old sentences I meant to delete starting new sentences here and there. Not a lot, I would say I caught maybe thirty of the above in the first four hundred pages. Which, of course, means there’s a lot more.

I’m surprised at how much I miss while reading it on the computer screen day after day. Then taking a break. Then reading it on hard copy. It’s like two completely different books. I see them entirely differently after two weeks and in two different formats. Stephen King wrote in his book On Writing that after the book is written a writer needs to put it away for a minimum of two weeks before working on it again. It is the soundest writing advice I have ever heard.

I took the break.

I took the break while waiting for my lulu book to arrive. I read something that wasn’t going to get me thinking while I was waiting. A teen book The Lightning Thief (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 1) by Rick Riordan that I know you’ve heard of. But, let’s face it, Twilight included, these books aren’t going to keep you up with their incredible depth at night. Neither are they going to inspire you as writers. So, that’s what I read while I waited and that is generally the type of book I choose to read if I don’t want a distraction from my own work. Normally, it doesn’t matter, but my head needed a break. At that pointed I had spent over two hundred hours on my book in little less than two weeks. My boyfriend (Joseph Crawford) suggested I start keeping track of my time. I’m not doing that anymore, it was too shocking and upsetting.

Thoughts on my book.

I was a little disappointed in the first hundred and fifty pages or so. Not the writing, not the characters, not even the sad editing job that I did. I was disappointed and worried that it seemed to jump around so much. In my push to get the reader right into the action I’m afraid I might have pushed too hard. As it is, my book is in four parts and within the four parts I switch between my three characters twice. I think it’s too much for the beginning of my book. I’m considering, in part one and maybe part two as well, scaling it back so instead of jumping back and forth six times in each part, I think I may combine my girls’ parts down to one instead of two separate pieces. So the jump would only be three times and the reader would stay with one main character twice as long. I’m going to keep thinking about it. God knows I’m going to be reading the book again and seeing whether or not my thoughts are justified.

Almost there.

I have about a hundred and fifty pages left to read. I’ve found some more places I’m going to be cutting. Most of it is left over scenes from when I first re-wrote the book a couple of years ago. The writer I am today is sitting there reading them and going “What the hell? That doesn’t make any sense at all, why don’t I just do this and save five thousand words!?” The first major one is where Karalay really comes into the book in part two. The second one is what really feels like a ridiculous amount of words that I devoted to Jezaline. After that, I’m actually pleased with Osondrous, but her stripping down I did right away when I started this last push (again, the last push, how many last pushes can I have?). For both Karalay and Jezaline I need to find better words for some longer arrays of dialogue between them and the men they are with. Karalay with the man she has been with for ages but only now developed an awkward love life with and Jezaline with the gigantic prince of the Draegoone who is very interested in her. Both women are very intelligent. The dialogue is going to have to be the tie that binds it all together and brings the readers to a place where they can understand Jezaline’s attraction to the prince and Karalay’s attraction to the Darkhalk.

It seems like I used to be better at Dialogue.

Or at least I thought I was pretty good at dialogue a couple of years ago. I’ve cut out so much of what I wrote in the last rewrite. Dialogue, that when I wrote it then, seemed drippy and amazing with unsaid layers. Dialogue that I read now and wonder what the fuck it was even in the book for.

My last complaint about my book.

I’m a cutter. I don’t know if I’ve told you that yet. I’ve taken first draft fiction to writers meetings and had people tell me that it felt like I had “cut too much” when I edited it. Everyone is always stunned when I tell them it’s first draft and I haven’t edited it yet. This is my a-typical first draft: an almost bones only, no adjectives with a subtle or nonexistent narrator. I am pleased to say that I have finally cut my book down to where it almost reads like a first draft of my own writing today. Actually more like a second draft. It’s all good news because before the book read like I hadn’t wrote fiction before. Now, I need to add back. I have so much dialogue missing description and I have many characters and places missing the first and most important description of them. I won’t add many words, but I do feel it is time to dress my beast.