Dear Lands End:
I have bought clothes from you for forty years. A lot of clothes over time. Gifts for people, clothes for my kids, clothes for me. Get it? A LOT OF CLOTHES. Given your response to pressure from conservative groups and pulling your ad campaign featuring Gloria Steinem, I've decided to stop buying clothes from you. I realize that this is a form of my own financial guerilla terrorism, but this is the only tactic I have at my disposal to let you know that this is not cool. I suppose that you feel you can't win this war of political correctness and by pulling her it is probably the least of all evils. But, you know, Land's End, you siding with the people who are loud but they are not great in number. They are bigoted, they hate equal rights for women. You sell far more clothes for women than you do for men in your company. Think about that. You haven't replaced Ms. Steinem with anyone else who might be an excellent representative for the older women you're trying to court. You didn't consider that the women that she might appeal to (older women like me) would feel totally and justifiably dissed at your decision to pull her ad campaign. You probably feel you've waded into a mine field in this polarized society. Tough. You've just lost a valuable customer.
Claire M. Johnson
Monday, February 29, 2016
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Cranky Pants
In an effort to up my reading game, and possibly get some inspiration for my own writing, I have joined a book club. It's filled with a diverse group of intelligent, educated women, and I'm kinda grooving on that aspect of it. This book group has prompted me to start reading outside of book club suggestions. Which brings us to my problem. I have been more disappointed than not lately with the quality of the books I'm reading. These books are filled with a lot of beautiful language, but as a book they don't seem to work.
What do I mean by that? Well, characters follow a reasonable arc that dove-tails into a reasonable plot. Pretty much that's it. Lots of the books I'm reading have main characters doing things that don't make sense in terms of the characterization that has preceded them, and yet the author tells us (in so many words) that this is legitimate. I'm sorry. Writing doesn't work that way. You need to make the trajectory of the tension (which is the engine of ANY book) make sense. You can't just say you need A to happen because if it doesn't, then you don't have the set up for B. A and B need to work hand in hand.
Increasingly an author seems to have a deft hand with language but leaves me frustrated with either the character arc, the plot, or both. Many of these books are award winners and on best seller lists, and I'm basically stumped here. Why, I ask? They are not bad books, but they aren't, IMO, the best books they could be.
Listed below are a couple of books I've read lately that I liked a lot:
My Sunshine Away by M. O. Walsh. A coming of age story with some substantial triggers for those who are affected by those things. It says some profound things about teenagers and the suburbs and how the veneer in those communities is so thin. Also some interesting insight into the cruelty of teenagers. The author is from the south and there is a bit of gothic sensibility about it. At one point he sort of goes off on the deep end trying to explain the south, and if I had been his editor, I would have yanked him on the ear and said, um, no, you're telling not showing, and believe me, you've shown it so well that you don't need to repeat it here, but he quickly gets back on track. It's a beautiful book about ugly things.
All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews. This is set in Winnipeg, Canada, and is a story of two sisters. Again, there are triggers. One is a perennial fuck-up, and the other is a world famous concert pianist. Toews was raised as a Mennonite and it's a dominant theme in her books. I've read another one of her books and it was almost identical to this one in terms of the protagonist rejecting her Mennonite past: the classic story of the insider who becomes an outsider. Add lots of snow and cold. But the most fascinating aspect of this book is the larger question it raises about art and love. If you love someone, do you love them unconditionally and what does that demand? I liked this book a lot. There are some scenes in a hospital setting that I found ludicrous--unless the Canadian medical system is basically cruel and incompetent, which I strongly doubt--but it's a relatively minor quibble.
I guess what I'm saying here is that there were parts in both these books that had me rolling my eyes, but in neither case did it harm the integrity of the book. These books worked in the grander scheme of things. And it goes without saying that the writing was superb. By that I mean the language, the cadence, the "song" of the prose.
So there are two recommendations from me. Neither of these are easy reads, in that there is suffering and loss in both of them, but they are worth it. Four thumbs up.
What do I mean by that? Well, characters follow a reasonable arc that dove-tails into a reasonable plot. Pretty much that's it. Lots of the books I'm reading have main characters doing things that don't make sense in terms of the characterization that has preceded them, and yet the author tells us (in so many words) that this is legitimate. I'm sorry. Writing doesn't work that way. You need to make the trajectory of the tension (which is the engine of ANY book) make sense. You can't just say you need A to happen because if it doesn't, then you don't have the set up for B. A and B need to work hand in hand.
Increasingly an author seems to have a deft hand with language but leaves me frustrated with either the character arc, the plot, or both. Many of these books are award winners and on best seller lists, and I'm basically stumped here. Why, I ask? They are not bad books, but they aren't, IMO, the best books they could be.
Listed below are a couple of books I've read lately that I liked a lot:
My Sunshine Away by M. O. Walsh. A coming of age story with some substantial triggers for those who are affected by those things. It says some profound things about teenagers and the suburbs and how the veneer in those communities is so thin. Also some interesting insight into the cruelty of teenagers. The author is from the south and there is a bit of gothic sensibility about it. At one point he sort of goes off on the deep end trying to explain the south, and if I had been his editor, I would have yanked him on the ear and said, um, no, you're telling not showing, and believe me, you've shown it so well that you don't need to repeat it here, but he quickly gets back on track. It's a beautiful book about ugly things.
All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews. This is set in Winnipeg, Canada, and is a story of two sisters. Again, there are triggers. One is a perennial fuck-up, and the other is a world famous concert pianist. Toews was raised as a Mennonite and it's a dominant theme in her books. I've read another one of her books and it was almost identical to this one in terms of the protagonist rejecting her Mennonite past: the classic story of the insider who becomes an outsider. Add lots of snow and cold. But the most fascinating aspect of this book is the larger question it raises about art and love. If you love someone, do you love them unconditionally and what does that demand? I liked this book a lot. There are some scenes in a hospital setting that I found ludicrous--unless the Canadian medical system is basically cruel and incompetent, which I strongly doubt--but it's a relatively minor quibble.
I guess what I'm saying here is that there were parts in both these books that had me rolling my eyes, but in neither case did it harm the integrity of the book. These books worked in the grander scheme of things. And it goes without saying that the writing was superb. By that I mean the language, the cadence, the "song" of the prose.
So there are two recommendations from me. Neither of these are easy reads, in that there is suffering and loss in both of them, but they are worth it. Four thumbs up.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Essay Worth Your Time
I read was an essay today by writer Claire Vaye Watkins: On Pandering . It's about being a women writer in this misogynistic publishing culture and what we as women find ourselves doing to whore ourselves to a culture that doesn't respect us, treats us like shit, and, in general, refuses to acknowledge our writer selves.
I wrote a long post that I just deleted because it really served no purpose other than to vent my frustration with the current publishing climate. Anyway, read her essay.
I wrote a long post that I just deleted because it really served no purpose other than to vent my frustration with the current publishing climate. Anyway, read her essay.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Is it the Writer or the Self that Matters?
I was at my book critique group the other night, and a few of us have novels that are incubating to the point where we to at least give a nod to marketing. All of us are over fifty. At first glance this doesn't seem important, but actually it's so damn critical that it's terrifying. None of us are comfortable with the concept of the selfie, which is basically code for promoting yourself. I have NEVER taken a picture of myself to post on my Facebook, Blogger, or any sort of social media. I have an author photo. That's it. The concept of selling myself, whether it's a book or just, well, me is so foreign that it's like someone is speaking another language. And yet every publisher who FAQS I've perused demand that you have a robust presence on social media. Not just a blog, because they are dead. And not just Facebook because that seems to be passe. But tumblr and twitter and instagram. Post away, people! You have a fully formed "self" that actually has nothing to do with your book. In face, IMO, the book is incidental, almost an after thought.
And what exactly does a fifty-nine year old woman have to sell these days in a world that is obsessed with youth? Fuck all, frankly.
I have just finished a book. It's done and I'm about to shop it around. I'm not making money on my writing, so I basically write what I want to write. I have fun with it. It doesn't mean that I treat my writing as nothing more than a hobby or a lark, but my lack of success actually means that I don't have to please anyone but myself. I don't have to churn out a book every six months, which given that I work full time, is absolutely impossible. And the reading public need to be fed on a constant basis. Unless you're someone like Donna Tartt where you can write one book every ten years. I'm not Donna Tartt. You can't write a book every five years like I do and expect to have a writing career. This is both freeing and also extremely depressing. But that's my reality.
So yeah, I had fun with this book. I wrote it in two different POVs, both males, and young men at that. And now I'm faced with the reality that I can't market this book as is now de rigueur. I physically can't put a picture of myself on a website or the back cover of a book and expect the market whom might actually want to read it actually pick it up or click on it. Why? Because I'm a fifty-eight year old woman writing about twenty-somethings. I have no street cred basically. I plan to market it under a pseudonym, but I can't take that very far.
For the first time I actually understand why authors create these alter personalities to sell their books. And I don't mean just writing under a different name. Remember that scandal of a street kid who wrote his memoir and it was horrifying the level of abuse he was subjected to. And the book was a massive hit and he was an industry darling, and it turns out he was a middle-aged white women who had trouble selling her novels and adopted this persona because apparently abused kids who turned were selling really well.
This is a perfect example of what I'm talking about. The book and the author are now so joined, the "self" of the author so integral to the book, that you can't say I thought this would be fun to write and lease judge this book on its merits.
Authors are now a commodity and in some ways, I think more than the book itself.
And what exactly does a fifty-nine year old woman have to sell these days in a world that is obsessed with youth? Fuck all, frankly.
I have just finished a book. It's done and I'm about to shop it around. I'm not making money on my writing, so I basically write what I want to write. I have fun with it. It doesn't mean that I treat my writing as nothing more than a hobby or a lark, but my lack of success actually means that I don't have to please anyone but myself. I don't have to churn out a book every six months, which given that I work full time, is absolutely impossible. And the reading public need to be fed on a constant basis. Unless you're someone like Donna Tartt where you can write one book every ten years. I'm not Donna Tartt. You can't write a book every five years like I do and expect to have a writing career. This is both freeing and also extremely depressing. But that's my reality.
So yeah, I had fun with this book. I wrote it in two different POVs, both males, and young men at that. And now I'm faced with the reality that I can't market this book as is now de rigueur. I physically can't put a picture of myself on a website or the back cover of a book and expect the market whom might actually want to read it actually pick it up or click on it. Why? Because I'm a fifty-eight year old woman writing about twenty-somethings. I have no street cred basically. I plan to market it under a pseudonym, but I can't take that very far.
For the first time I actually understand why authors create these alter personalities to sell their books. And I don't mean just writing under a different name. Remember that scandal of a street kid who wrote his memoir and it was horrifying the level of abuse he was subjected to. And the book was a massive hit and he was an industry darling, and it turns out he was a middle-aged white women who had trouble selling her novels and adopted this persona because apparently abused kids who turned were selling really well.
This is a perfect example of what I'm talking about. The book and the author are now so joined, the "self" of the author so integral to the book, that you can't say I thought this would be fun to write and lease judge this book on its merits.
Authors are now a commodity and in some ways, I think more than the book itself.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
What Constitutes a Good Book, I'm Curious
Yesterday I went looking for a book for my book club. I compiled a bunch of "notable" lists from various publications, and then went to the dreaded and now omnipotent amazon to read some reviews. Given that reviewing is now basically a lost art, and we are now at the mercy of the mob for commentary on our work, if you want to read a reaction to a book, you are basically forced to either go to amazon or Goodreads.
The number of one-star reviews for these books was staggering. So I began reading these one-star reviews for several different books and a definite pattern emerged.
They seem massively bored by everything. The underlying tone of these reviews is that they were looking to be entertained but in the context of demanding that a specific fantasy be met. There was an expectation that THEIR fantasy should be fulfilled.
I think the relationship between reader and writer has drastically changed. As that fourth wall between public and media has begun to disintegrate, there is the expectation that public owns the art and expects the artist to feed them. This is very different from an artist opening a private door into their world and inviting you in to have a seat. Now it's the public with the keys to that door and the artist is invited in to perform. To a script they haven't seen or a song they've never sung.
The number of one-star reviews for these books was staggering. So I began reading these one-star reviews for several different books and a definite pattern emerged.
- Readers want to be entertained, and if the story is sad or the characters are conflicted, depressed, traumatized, or in some way not happy, then they hate the book and are bored. They don't like flawed characters. They want to actively identify with the main characters. The phrase I read over and over again was that these characters didn't have any redeeming qualities.
- They want happy endings and will only accept conflict if a happy ending massages the conflict away.
- They cannot stand not having a totally linear plot line; they are lazy readers and want a book's structure to be straightforward and easy to read;
- They hate multiple points of view because, hello, they are lazy, and they don't want to actively parse out a storyline; they want it fed to them;
- They seem to be experts on what makes a good writer, and yet what makes a good writer seems to be an elusive concept. Sometimes they will admit that a book has evocative writing, but it's boring. OR. The novel was interesting but the characterization was flat and, of course, boring. I wish I had a dollar every time I read the word "boring" to describe a book.
- I also wish I had a dollar for all the times that I read a book is "poorly edited." Now this has been a pet peeve of mine for years, and I've complained about that repeatedly on this very blog. Sadly, I don't think it's the lack of editing that bothers them. The sense I got is that they didn't like the voice and the pacing, which, hello, are very different animals.
They seem massively bored by everything. The underlying tone of these reviews is that they were looking to be entertained but in the context of demanding that a specific fantasy be met. There was an expectation that THEIR fantasy should be fulfilled.
I think the relationship between reader and writer has drastically changed. As that fourth wall between public and media has begun to disintegrate, there is the expectation that public owns the art and expects the artist to feed them. This is very different from an artist opening a private door into their world and inviting you in to have a seat. Now it's the public with the keys to that door and the artist is invited in to perform. To a script they haven't seen or a song they've never sung.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Oh, Envy, Pull Up a Chair and Sit for a Spell
My life has been quite crazy lately. Finished hush-hush book project, attended my daughter's wedding, and visited Hearst Castle, which, ironically enough, I visited when I was eight months pregnant with now newly married daughter. I've been having a grand time, and also not such a good time as work has been demanding. Oi, I'm tired.
But I also managed to read two very beautiful books, which I shall review in a bit. I haven't read much decent fiction in a while, so it was nice to put down a book and say that's mighty fine writing. And I could say that about TWO books!. YAY!
Envy is always something a writer has to contend with. It's so easy to succumb to it that I actively push it away. Most days it doesn't get a toehold. There will always be writers who write better than you do, and your skillz aren't going to improve no matter how much you might disparage theirs. I do envy some people's success, usually those writers whose popularity I find completely baffling. To this day I do not understand the popularity of The Girl with the..." books. Authors whose success I understand, I don't envy. They deserve it, and all I have to say to them is, you go, girl (or boy). I also am not bitter about those authors whose success is such a total goddamn fluke that I'm more amused than anything else. The woman who penned 50 Shades of Grey? Laugh all the way to the bank, honey.
But this week I face a different kind of envy that I find very difficult to shove into the corners of my psyche. If you read this blog (all seven of you), you know that I penned an Austen pastiche, a take-off of Pride and Prejudice named Pen and Prejudice. I worked hard on that book, and I think it's fairly decent. It's not brilliant, but then how many of us are brilliant authors? Damn few. So, yeah, I can look at it dispassionately and say, hey, not bad.
And I couldn't sell it to save my life. I flogged that book for almost two years. This was on the heels of the Zombie Austen book, and I thought, yay, the market is ripe for a modern take on Austen! I was actually correct. Sadly, it wasn't me, a no-name author, whom the market wanted.
The Austen Project has handed out the Austen books to individual authors (all of them are well known) to construct a modern take on the Austen classics. Why does this sound familiar? Oh! Just like I did! I wish I had a dollar for every agent who said to me, "Hmmm, interesting concept, but I just don't think I could sell it." Clearly they were wrong, because all these books are getting a ton of hype, and as slowly as the book world moves, it was obvious to me that at the time I was trying to sell my book, this concept was actually being sold.
Of course it's possible that my book isn't good enough to compete with these other authors. Maybe. Their reviews aren't any better than my reviews, and, honestly? I think I can hold my own with these other authors and their interpretations of my favorite characters in fiction.
Yes, I am envious that they didn't have to query a bazillion agents until finally realizing that no one was going to buy this book, and if I didn't want to mold on my hard drive, I had to publish it myself. Which I did. But it rankles, and I'm envious.
Anyway: the Austen Project. If you love Jane Austen, check it out. Ignore envy, who is snorting, pouting, and wheezing in the corner of this blog. She isn't staying long. I've handed her an eviction notice.
But I also managed to read two very beautiful books, which I shall review in a bit. I haven't read much decent fiction in a while, so it was nice to put down a book and say that's mighty fine writing. And I could say that about TWO books!. YAY!
Envy is always something a writer has to contend with. It's so easy to succumb to it that I actively push it away. Most days it doesn't get a toehold. There will always be writers who write better than you do, and your skillz aren't going to improve no matter how much you might disparage theirs. I do envy some people's success, usually those writers whose popularity I find completely baffling. To this day I do not understand the popularity of The Girl with the..." books. Authors whose success I understand, I don't envy. They deserve it, and all I have to say to them is, you go, girl (or boy). I also am not bitter about those authors whose success is such a total goddamn fluke that I'm more amused than anything else. The woman who penned 50 Shades of Grey? Laugh all the way to the bank, honey.
But this week I face a different kind of envy that I find very difficult to shove into the corners of my psyche. If you read this blog (all seven of you), you know that I penned an Austen pastiche, a take-off of Pride and Prejudice named Pen and Prejudice. I worked hard on that book, and I think it's fairly decent. It's not brilliant, but then how many of us are brilliant authors? Damn few. So, yeah, I can look at it dispassionately and say, hey, not bad.
And I couldn't sell it to save my life. I flogged that book for almost two years. This was on the heels of the Zombie Austen book, and I thought, yay, the market is ripe for a modern take on Austen! I was actually correct. Sadly, it wasn't me, a no-name author, whom the market wanted.
The Austen Project has handed out the Austen books to individual authors (all of them are well known) to construct a modern take on the Austen classics. Why does this sound familiar? Oh! Just like I did! I wish I had a dollar for every agent who said to me, "Hmmm, interesting concept, but I just don't think I could sell it." Clearly they were wrong, because all these books are getting a ton of hype, and as slowly as the book world moves, it was obvious to me that at the time I was trying to sell my book, this concept was actually being sold.
Of course it's possible that my book isn't good enough to compete with these other authors. Maybe. Their reviews aren't any better than my reviews, and, honestly? I think I can hold my own with these other authors and their interpretations of my favorite characters in fiction.
Yes, I am envious that they didn't have to query a bazillion agents until finally realizing that no one was going to buy this book, and if I didn't want to mold on my hard drive, I had to publish it myself. Which I did. But it rankles, and I'm envious.
Anyway: the Austen Project. If you love Jane Austen, check it out. Ignore envy, who is snorting, pouting, and wheezing in the corner of this blog. She isn't staying long. I've handed her an eviction notice.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
National Grammar Day!
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