on beauty

Two nights ago, I saw Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake at City Center.  The first time I saw the piece was eleven years ago, when the production first came to Broadway.  I was entranced and have since watched my DVD a number of times.  But Tuesday night was the first time I watched the show in its entirety in a long time.

I love the music.  I love every aspect of this production.  I can no longer imagine a version with a female dancing the part of the Swan because, really, female swans don’t make sense.  Swans are powerful, majestic, and cruel.  There is something inherently masculine about their physical strength.

I missed Adam Cooper.  His portrayal of the Swan was unimaginably layered.  Tuesday’s performance was good, better than good, even.  But something was missing.  With a flick of the wrist or a curve of his shoulder, Adam Cooper could evoke the movements of a bird, but also cruelty, love, lust, and aloofness.  There are no words to describe how many contrary emotions he could call with his wrist.

And that is what I want to write about.  The best dance I’ve ever seen hits me in the gut.  The emotions are so intense that it almost hurts to feel the loss or joy or anger or love.  Just being witness to the beauty and grace makes me ache.  When watching Swan Lake or my friend’s old brilliant dance company in college, tides of emotion start in the space between my solar plexus and my stomach and just radiate outward.

I don’t understand.

When I returned home Tuesday night, I tried to explain the production to my husband.  But in putting the relationship between the Prince and the Swan into words, I flattened it, deadened it.  The beauty of Swan Lake is that, without words, they dance simultaneous, contradictory, non-narrative relationships.

Does the Swan love the Prince?

Does the Swan torture the Prince?

Does the Swan protect the Prince?

Does the Swan feel remorse?

Does he hate the Prince?

Is he a perpetrator or a victim?

Is the Stranger actually the Swan?

Does the Swan want the Queen?

Does the Swan only dance with the women to hurt the Prince?

Is the Swan real or a figment of the Prince’s insanity?

Is the Swan capable of love?

Is the Swan capable of anything but cruelty?

Is this a story of requited or unrequited love?

Is this a story about insanity?

The answer is yes.

Try telling that relationship in narrative.  Try using words.  I dare you.  It doesn’t work.

After spending a number of years studying linguistics, cognitive science, literature, and art—and after spending even more years as a human being—I have come to the conclusion that people do not think in words.  Words come later.  Thoughts, emotions, happen on a pre-linguistic level.  Sure, our language affects how we think in the same way that picture frames affect what we see.  Thank you, Sapir Wharf.  But that’s it; words focus, but do not define, thought.  Haven’t you ever felt an emotion that you couldn’t put into words—not because you couldn’t remember the right one but because none existed for it? 

That’s what makes dance so profound for me.  It can tap into my emotions—into who I am—on a pre-linguistic level. Not sure what the lesson or conclusion I should draw from this is, as a writer.  I’m sure there is one.  Today, I am still just reeling from the raw experience.

community of loners

I've started to query agents and really, the idea of it is just making me queasy.  So instead of focusing desperately on my inbox, I am going to blog about a bit of writing common wisdom that I disagree with.

Writing is a lonely practice.

Writers, industry professionals, commentators all agree.  But I don't.

Sure, when I am writing, I do so alone.  I have all of these characters and visions swirling around my head.  I type at breakneck pace in fear that I will lose a morsel before I have time to commit it to the page.  In these moments, I like my solitude.  It is necessary.  I don't feel lonely, I feel invigorated.  In truth, the aspects of my life that intrude on that solitude--work, family, friends, husband, cats--only make me angry at those times.

But what about when the frenzy is over?  Nearly a year of editing, rewriting, beta's critiques, researching agents, query writing, and (cringe) the synopsis.

During this year, it was the community of writers and industry professionals that kept me sane.  Reading the many agent blogs taught me a great deal about the process of finding an agent, what a good query letter is, the do's and don'ts.  Comments on that blog let me know that my fears and misunderstandings were not my own.  A whole community of writers shared them with me.  Beta readers made me feel better in my blue days and kicked my ass into gear on my tired ones.  Forums helped me refine my work and support others'.

Perhaps this says more about my social life in the real world than anything else.  I am not a partier.  I do not have a large group of friends.  I do not attend a religious group or a book club.  So this community of writers and readers and publishing industry good Samaritans has made me feel... well... a part of something.

So, thank you for sharing your manuscripts, your critiques and your wisdom.  I am humbled to be part of this crowd.

put a fork in it

Huh.  I think I finished FLIGHT.  This is weird.

Thirteen months after I began writing the first scenes--eleven of which have been spent on editing--I think I am ready to begin querying agents.  I've gotten the incredible input of 3.5 beta readers (I'll let you speculate about what that .5 means) and now feel like I've gotten it to a high plateau.

I've written my query letter template and have research agents, even begun personalizing the queries to them.  The synopsis, much as it makes me cringe, is as close to uncringeworthy as it might ever be.

So, what is stopping me from querying?

I'm petrified.  Literally paralyzed with fear.

Is FLIGHT really done?  It's not the grand work that it is in my head.  But according to this elegant article by Michael Cunningham, that is to be expected.  I'm happy with FLIGHT.  I like what I have done with it.  It is imperfect but it is my offering.  (Three points to whoever picks up on that reference.)  But am I querying to early?  Is FLIGHT really finished?  Is the query the best it can be?  The synopsis?  All I can say is that I am happy with what they are.

I am sincerely hoping that by this time next week I will have worked past the nausea sufficiently to start putting it out there.

Keep breathing.

emphasizing the real in paranormal

Following hot on the heels of my ode to paranormal, here is Sarah La Polla's take on the realism inherent in successful paranormal and how to harness it.  While I love the entire post, point #1 jumped out at me.  Plus, anyone that can reference Kafka and Buffy in the same post just makes me happy.  Read, ponder, comment.

ode to paranormal

Holding this particularly episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer up as an example of what made the show transcendent is a bit of a cliché, but I’m going to start my blog post here anyway.  “Surprise.”  It is the episode in the second season wherein Buffy and her vampire-with-a-soul boyfriend Angel have sex.  The unanticipated consequence of which is that Angel loses his soul and becomes evil.  More than any afterschool special or high school health class could possibly hope to accomplish, this episode and the rest of the season manifest a terrible truth for many young women: “I thought he loved me, we had sex, and then he became a monster.”

Women don’t ever say, “I thought he loved me, we had sex, and then he started behaving in a way that made me feel as hurt and betrayed and scared as I would if he had become evil.”  No, they say, “he became a monster.” 

Therein lies the weight of Buffy and all of the best in paranormal/sci-fi/fantasy/magic realism.  By shirking the boundaries set by realism, these genres allow artists to get to the emotional truth of a story and put it forward in a concrete, literal way.  

This is how life feels.

There are a myriad of other brilliant scenes and episodes in Buffy that exemplify such emotional truth, as do any great zombie stories, vampire fiction, Hogwarts escapades, what have you.  (Almost all of my favorite YA is paranormal because everything feels so high stakes and raw when we are young.  The time lends itself perfectly to the literalization of emotion.)  Paranormal fiction is metaphor writ large.  It is emotion made literal.

I am a great lover of John Donne’s poetry and one of my all time favorite lines is from “A Fever.”  Donne writes about the woman he loves being fatally ill and says, “The whole world vapours with thy breath.”  A beautiful and profound statement.  Technically a metaphor but you get the sense for this grief-stricken poet, it is quite literal.

When Villanelle loses her heart to her lover in Jeanette Winterson’s The Passion, she does so literally.  It is years later that she is strong enough to break into the woman’s home and reclaim her heart from the glass jar in which it has been kept.  Sethe is literally haunted by the ghost of her daughter in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.  For characters in these hyper-real stories, nothing “feels like,” it only “is.”

My MS, FLIGHT, is the story of a woman who is so unable to accept who she is that she destroys her own happiness and that of the people she loves the most.  It’s a favorite character type for me (Starbuck in Battlestar Galactica, anyone?) and by writing a work of magic realism, I could make the stakes real.  Maria doesn’t just go through a “self destructive phase” after her father dies or a boyfriend breaks her heart, she literally self destructs.

The high stakes makes for great fiction.  But it also, for me at least, feels much more true than any realism I know.

to amuse. or to take very seriously.

Via http://jaimealyse.tumblr.com.

For me, that's a post it note.  I'm fucked.

beta learning

While letting FLIGHT sit with two beta readers, I am taking on a new role... acting as beta for another writer.  I have done this in the past for short pieces written friends, but never a full length MS.  Though the story is fun to read, I am also feeling the responsibility of a beta.  And I am learning a lot as a writer.

It is not often that I get to see works in progress.  It feels a lot like seeing an open body.  I am fortunate enough to have a clearer view of how the muscles and tendons and bones and circulatory system all work.  (A view that allows me to reflect on my own body.)  It is a tremendous learning experience and rather humbling.  It is also incredibly personal.  I've never had to wonder what my bedside manner is like and now I will have to see.

I am currently making my way through a first read.  I want to get a sense of the book as I would if I were a casual reader.  Then, I will go back through and make notes.  Still, even as a casual reader, I have noticed a few aspects of the writing that I really like.  But more difficult to deal with, I see a major problem in the plot.  A huge problem.  As I read, I am chewing over how best to present this criticism to the writer.

Of course, I plan on using Nathan Bransford's sandwich style for critiquing -- positive, negative, positive.  But beyond that?