Write What You Know (or at least do really good research first)

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by Kelly DeBie

I’m at this place in my life where I’m reading a decent number of self-help books. All of which are written by so-called experts in whatever the topic is, none of which seem to have very much information that pertains to me or is relevant to my situation.

For their sakes, I’m going to assume that whatever they have written, though it doesn’t apply to me like the cover promised it would, must have mattered to them. At least when they wrote it, that is.

These books seem to not only be off the mark, but filled with judgment and condescension, as though whatever experience the author is drawing from is the only important one, and their opinion the best one available.

I suppose it sells books to suckers like me who keep buying them. I read most of them, then throw them across the room.

Sometimes I think my frustration with these books, and with so much non-fiction writing in general is that there almost needs to be this assumed superiority in knowledge, even if it’s not based in truth. Without that hook, that new and improved version of information, without the new sound bytes, how else would they sell the books?

It’s true, I suppose, that non-fiction writing just is that way.

The air of superiority, the specialized knowledge or experience that is unique to each writer, captured and packaged for the masses, even if it almost never directly applies to anyone else.

Without that, aren’t we just regurgitating the same material over and over again?

I suppose so, but then I also suppose that my suppositions mean that I’m arguing with myself.

This notion of expertise in non-fiction writing, self-help writing in particular, is both required and based in falsehood.

Or maybe it’s just that I’ve grown weary of this universe full of self-proclaimed experts, particularly given that so many of them are later revealed to not actually have the knowledge base to be clinging to that illusion of superiority.

You know what I’m talking about, or at least I’m assuming you do.

The “experts” who aren’t. Who don’t actually know what they are talking about. Who have little or no expertise in the area that they claim to, but sell it well.

While it may be slightly more difficult to publish and sell a book based on an unsteady foundation of knowledge, the internet is full of people who do it on a daily basis.

The political pundits who don’t even understand the text of the laws they argue about. The parenting gurus who have had exactly one child for five months and three days. The relationship experts who have marriages that end in ugly divorces. The moms who proclaim how best to raise a child with (fill in the blank condition) even though their children don’t struggle with that issue at all. The life coaches who mostly have failed at careers of their own. The financial planners who can’t balance their own checkbooks. The hypocritical vegans. The nutrition bloggers who couldn’t even tell you where something falls on the glycemic index.

Them.

I could go on and on and on, but I’m again assuming you’re familiar with the phenomenon. Are some of those topics the type that a sufficient knowledge base can be formed with just doing adequate research? Maybe. 

Are most of them of that variety? No.

When people ask me for advice about starting to write, one of the most common things I tell them is to write what they know. Be honest. Be transparent. Be authentic. Don’t try to be something you’re not, because even if you manage to fool people for a little while, eventually you’ll be found out. Eventually people will see through it.

If that doesn’t work, and you still feel compelled to write about something you aren’t familiar with, make sure you do exceptionally good research. Cover your bases. Learn about whatever that topic is in depth. Then learn more.

Understand though that sometimes there is simply no substitute for experience.

And remember that once something is published, whether on the internet or in a book, it’s going to live on for all eternity. If you’re just giving a topic lip service, someone, somewhere will find out and all the delete buttons in the world won't save you.

I’d rather be unknown and have integrity than be famous for being a fraud.

But that’s just me...

"Poltergeist" and Online (Book) Reviews

By Molly Field

Note: I wrote this post Sunday night, when all was mostly well and Boston was preparing for its marathon. I considered pulling this post entirely in light of the tragedy, but I didn't. I didn't edit it, I didn't change it a bit. Part of me wants to remember what Sunday was like before Monday became horrible. My heart goes out to Boston and all who are affected by it near and far. 

Maybe I'll change my mind in a year or two, but I believe 5-stars are the new 3-stars. Sort of like how 40 is the new 30 25.

When I first started this blogging-to-be-a-writer gig, I was dewy and not unlike Carole-Anne when she fell through the ceiling in "Poltergiest," the first time, all lush and covered in strawberry preserves and completely unaware for what was coming my way or how the hell I'd just gotten there.

I mean, look at her... I'll wait.

image: (c) MGM Studios

I know, right? JoBeth Williams too; all slimy and ready to be smeared into a sandwich. Ready to be devoured by the Internets and judged and critiqued and not at all ready for the intensity of the drive to compete and self-promote and cross-promote and sell and promote ... myself. Something that I wasn't even charging anyone to enjoy or debase.

Then came along the Facebook blog/fan page; a so-called Must Have. It has done nothing but confuse me. Then I got to know other bloggers and I built alliances with people I didn't really "know" and became just more confused:

image: (c) MGM Studios

How'd they get there like that? How'd I get there like that? All I did was open a Facebook account in 2008 and then started a blog for grins and giggles only to end up BEGGING for Likes of a fan page that sucked more of my life away.

How'd I get from someone who just wanted to write about my observations from my cheap seats to hone my writerly skills to a gut-wrenching search for relevance? How?

Here's how: Comments. The comments felt like a kissing cousin of reviews which are only realized through constant self-promotion. I have a modest minuscule blog with a lovely following that I am grateful to have. I have no ambitions of unseating The Bloggess or anyone else, but as humans, we are all looking for favorable consideration. And that universal, human need for "favorable consideration" can eventually resemble biased and loaded boardroom backscratching book reviews.

really??

image (c) www.fourthgradenothing.com

The yearning for unbiased comments and authentic traffic (not China-based bots selling counterfeit Louis Vuitton bags) and the tiresome skulduggery (promoting, sharing, linking, tweeting) behavior has put into harsh relief an ugly fear: maybe objective reviews don't exist.

My thoughts are my own; my craft is writing, but despite all of this, I have been pulled into a direction which makes me uneasy and brings me back to feeling like strawberry preserves -covered Carole-Anne: confused. Social media has availed me to witnessing the unfortunate phenomenon of outright requests for favorable reviews of self-published books. I've heard tell of authors ranting over objective less-than 5-star reviews. I get where that comes from, because books are like our babies, but not every baby places first in the toddler pageant, and some judges won't be bribed.

I don't at all like being pulled in that direction. It feels forced.

image (c) MGM Studios

Neither does Carole-Anne. This was just before her second trip to the afterlife, this time through a giant flaming hole in the wall. 

My take on any book review is this: it has to be truly amazing for me to give 5 stars; we're talking Faulkner or (see, it's all subjective) say, The Bell Jar, which I read in one night and loved with my teeth; or as compelling as any previous NYTBSA (New York Times Best Selling Author) and even then, eeeeeeven then, you're never guaranteed of its quality, says my publishing rep.  I love Nick Sparks, but do I give him 5 stars? I give him 4; he doesn't make me swoon. Maybe I'm a Classic-ist. Nope. I'm just a good writer-ist; I want someone who will tactfully push the envelope.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't know who to trust anymore without Oprah's Book Club. Even the almighty Oprah got burned with James Frey's A Million Little Pieces -- that was just a simple matter of genre, he should have never marketed that book as nonfiction autobiography. Just do what everyone else is doing: "creative nonfiction," but I digress.

I do read reviews now when I go to Amazon for a book, but I didn't used to. I've become a skeptic: I also check the dates for most of the 5-star reviews and am grossed out. Say there's 35 5-star brand-new reviews. Of those 35, 27 are written within three days of release, and some of them are reciprocal. Some are completely over the top IN ALL CAPS I COULDN'T PUT IT DOWN I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS BOOK!

Then I like to see what the lower reviews have to say. Sometimes it's totally subjective, "I didn't like the font," or "Not all southerners say y'all." Or "I don't like romance novels, and so I shouldn't have bought this one, but my best friend's cousin wrote it..." Others are really intense: "Georgia bullfrogs don't make calls like that and they definitely don't during the daytime, at least where I live; also, you can't catch a 6-lb rainbow trout in that lake, the limit is 5.5-lbs!!! This author clearly doesn't know what he's talking about," or those reviews written by people with the moniker: "I Will Waste You." Some lower reviews say what I look for: formatting's a mess, dialogue didn't synch up or transitions were weak or nonexistent.  

The proliferation of self-published eBooks bothers me: the quality control is weak. They're like Fan Pages: there are a ton of them and quantity doesn't at all correlate with quality. When it comes to ebooks, quality of the actual product (editing, formatting, etc.) matters to me so much because it's a massive distraction when it stinks. I have stopped reading books when the formatting is wonky or "it's" or "they're" or their ilk are consistently and incorrectly used and/or I get tripped up in the formatting. Don't make me edit this... I was asked once by an eFriend to read an eBook already released, and within the first 11 pages, I experienced about 30 errors and then I started to keep track. I stopped at page 21 when I hit 150 simple errors, including tense and plurality and possession disagreements, bad punctuation, broken sentences, homophones, weird formatting and direct object confusion. I gave up.

Do we have to go through 3rd grade grammar again? YES. I gave those books: 2 stars just for making me wade through their garbage; I felt like this:

image (c) MGM Studios

I couldn't believe I was having to tolerate it. But I will always give more than one star because writing a book is hard. I give mostly 3-star to 4-star reviews if I give one at all.

I wish to give or receive a 5-star review if the book truly moved readers, or if we missed the characters when it ended. I've actually said, "NO!" when a book ended (Kate Chopin's The Awakening). If I learned something about myself, if I highlighted amazing prose or use of language, then I will give it 5-stars. If the artwork captivates me, then I will give it high marks. If it is: mostly flawless and gripping, I will give it 5-stars.

Maybe that's why I'll never publish a book: because I can't play the game and I don't want to waste your time. I'm in this gig to get better at it. I think Anita Diamant hit it so far out of the park with The Red Tent, her stunning debut, that she hasn't replicated it since. "She peaked early," said a good friend of mine. I've become so paranoid about loaded reviews that I'll read reviews in newspapers and then read what people say online before buying.

Last week, I learned that Amazon bought Goodreads. Oh. Dear. Now what? Is this the end of the fair review and awesome reader community? I mean, bully for the Goodreads founders, but many people, including this writer for Salon beg to differ. I can't say I'm surprised. I feel like Goodreads just couldn't resist this:

image (c) MGM Studios

So are they still out there? Do fair, unbiased, unforced reviews exist anymore? What do you think? Do you feel like JoBeth Williams with that skeleton at times?



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Are You Ready or Not? New Beginnings

By Molly Field

As a writer, nothing brings you greater satisfaction than penning that crisp sentence, flowing with the prose you not only create yourself, but with excellent writing offered by other authors.

Because we fancy ourselves a complex species, the opposite side of the same coin proposes that as a writer, nothing brings you greater senses of defeat and challenge than the words of other authors.

Spring is coming. The cherry blossoms on our neighborhood trees are pinking and peeking; the cardinals and robins are chatty, looking for wives. The sun is shining a little stronger and a little brighter every day. Spring, brings Macy's white sales and thoughts of purging, spring cleaning, new beginnings. I believe that many "New Year's Resolutions" should really be made on the first day of spring because in the winter, it's still too cold (at least where I live) to begin training for a marathon outside. (Yes, I am aware that not all NYRs focus on fitness.)

So for this month, we are encouraged to talk to you about new beginnings, fresh starts... This is a challenge for me because I am in the throes of a mental reorganization myself. But no time like the present, eh?

I didn't know what I was going to write about today. I get my prompt from our fearless leader, and sometimes I gnaw on a bone and other times I just bang one out. This time, I did a little of both. 

Without boring you to tears, I gave up Facebook for Lent. I'm not terrifically Catholic, but the opportunity was so well-timed and I wanted an out anyway, that I couldn't resist. It had all become too much for me.

My intention was to spend that time working on my book's drafts and edit it, which I have done, but not with the attention I paid to my Facebook "career." So clearly, I've got some work to do. The thing is though, that yesterday, my cousin sent me the cover art for her friend's new book, Flat Water Tuesday, a story about competitive rowing and young love. As an adult rower who hails from a renown rowing town, whose extended family rowed, whose parents met because of rowing, and whose brothers and cousins and now son row, the book has a no-brainer appeal for me.

It is not ironic (rather I consider it cosmically inspired) that when that cover art came to me, I was also on the phone being wooed by an exiting board member of my novice son's rowing club to be... yeah: president. I have attended one general membership meeting. They do have their ducks in a row over there, but my "pedigree" was undeniable and most of the board members are land lubbers. I said yes. (D'OH!) We'll see how it goes. It could be great. New beginnings, right?

The energy of these new starts, beginnings, etc., theme is intoxicating; it reminds me of when That Boy looked at me for the first time. The theme for today's post is coursing through me like whisky. I am simultaneously totally psyched and utterly petrified. 

It was one year ago this week, that I sat on my cousin's micro deck beneath the unseasonably warm sun in Buffalo where we talked about her friend's book. He'd just signed on with an agent; a publisher was totally interested. The energy was ramping up. They were talking contracts, money, real business. A part of me died inside when I heard all this. I thought, "I'll never be there... this guy's amazing..." and yet a part of me never died, because that summer I wrote my book. The one that needs the editing and the love I need to give it. I can't blame Facebook; I blame me.

I'm stuck now, just a little, but stuck enough to say this about new beginnings: I am considering writing my foreword now. However, I have this sense that I'm going to end up writing a whole new book, in fact the feeling that I will end up writing a whole new version of that book is undeniable. Is that so bad?

I am an Adult Child of Alcoholics, plural. We ACOAs don't have much luck or experience finishing things, but I know this: if I get started on something that I love, I never give it up. I push and push and push. And while I know that writing that first version of my book was cathartic and amazing, the next revised version, the one that spawns through this foreword, is going to be even better, even clearer. I just need six uninterrupted weeks. Why did I say yes to the rowing club?

But I have to be careful. As an ACOA I am constantly doubting myself, my intuition, my gut. I question the enthusiasm I have for something, I wonder if what I'm doing is enough or valuable. I get so caught up in the questioning of the act that I seldom act. It seems the only thing that fuels my fire to get up and keep going is a silent rage that is borne of the frustration that constant second guessing yields.

People who don't know the world of an ACOA look at us when we talk about it as if we have three heads. "What do you mean you hid under your bed for hours listening for your angry parent to close their door for the night?" or "What do you mean you cooked your own food when you were five? Who does that?" or the other ACOAs in your life will nod knowingly. Either way, you end up talking about that stuff for hours until you can't anymore; you're either sharing stories with people who also survived it, or your busy trying to convince people that those memories were real. It can be taxing.

I'm writing about all this here, so candidly, because I can. It's my literary place under the bed. I'm 45 years old and I'm still worried that my parents will be mad at me if I write about my life. The spiteful kid inside me, my Peter Pan, says this, "Do you think for one minute they considered your anger feelings?" and I think for a moment, sigh, look into the distance and tell Peter, "I have no clue."

Just to be clear, I didn't grow up in tatters under a shanty on a mountainside; we had no want for anything material. My parents were well-educated, connected and intelligent people. I was constantly reminded of my potential, that I could be a concert violinist if I wanted, but I didn't want that. Because they are also ACOAs, my parents knew the damage that negative talk can do. However, it can sound cliché, but it was what they didn't say that spoke louder than anything they did say.

Right now, I can feel the energy ebb a smidge, but the passion is still there; the nagging thought that this foreword can be the jack to "unstuck" me must be attended to. It must be honored.

New beginnings are here for all of us. You don't have to be an ACOA to have them. You just have to be willing to leave the past in the past and if you can summon any ounce of courage from those crushing days that kept you going to today, use it to move you to tomorrow and get that book published.

We are writers. Let's do this.

come out come out, wherever you are. photo credit: me

   

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NaDoReMeFaSoLaTeDoNo-NoWriMo

By Molly Field (www.mollyfield.com)

I’m supposed to be writing for NaNoWriMo this month and I have to admit: it’s not going well a’tall.

In fact, this post was supposed to be written a week ago.

The first day, November 1, I was raring to go. Woke up early, felt great, made a vat of coffee, prepared the children for school, came home, put on my woobies, turned on my writerly music, sat down with my mug of half-caf java (sorry Carrie, I’ll take hostages if I drink too much coffee) and long straw which used to be an aquarium tube and immediately got a headache.

I don’t get headaches.

Almost a week went by and I woke with the headaches after going to sleep with them. Last Friday, I went to the doctor’s and diagnosed with a sinus infection. It didn’t present typically with copious output and according to my physician, my “nose [was] clear, but [my] entire head [was] covered in fluid.”

Well, there it is: a fluid-covered,vise-clamped head.

This about sums it up. 

The diagnosis was like permission to allow my realization that I didn’t want to do NaNo this time. It wasn’t about incentive, camaraderie, or initiative. I have plenty of all of those, I just don’t have the interest or the compulsion or ah, hell, who am I kidding… I didn’t have a story this time either.

I sat down and wrote a few things, but they felt forced. They didn’t sound like me and I didn’t like it at all. It wasn’t writer’s block, it was writer’s blech.

My mother People My mother says, “Oh Maally! Relaaaax. It’ll be faaantaaastic, like everrrything yooou do. Yoooou’re your owwwwn worrrrst critik.” And I was. I was a really bad critic. I was so bad, I didn’t show up for the act.

I wrote a couple blog pieces, I enjoyed doing that. What’s funny about that is that at the end of October, I had announced on my vastly and wildly popular blog (really, you should check it out, it’s all the rage) that I was going to dial back on blogging so that I could write more. So what did I do? I didn’t write so I could go back to blogging. Even though I felt like crap but didn’t know it.

Once I’d learned the sinus infection was real and that it had been validated by my doctor, all of a sudden, an intense sharp pain slammed me from the back of my head to between my eyes at the brow bone. My doctor was in mid-sentence when this happened, telling me about the meds and what I had to do and I had raise my “just a minute” finger in her face and sit back, and take it all in. I was overcome.

“Sharp pain? Right now?” She asked and I nodded.

“First time ever in all this time?” she asked, already knowing the answer, to my furtive, micro-nodding upper body. Viselike, my chin was resting on my chest; I had become a clam, a nodding clam.

“I see that a lot, with some people. I see it a lot with moms. You needed validation didn’t you, to be unwell?” I nodded, sniffling now. Not from the pressure, but from the blessed relief of letting the pressure go.

A couple moments of quiet passed between us. I blew my nose, crumpled the tissue until I spoke, “I was one of those kids, who when I’d get in a fight with a schoolmate on the playground or with my brothers or a neighbor, I wouldn’t let them see me cry. I took it and held it all in. But when I got home, and I saw my mom or dad, I cried and howled. I let it out then. When I felt…”

“Safe.” She said. “When you felt safe.”

And I said sniffled ‘yes,’ which sounded like, “Shnesh.” 

So this brings me to my point: forcing is wrong, holding in is wrong and pushing ourselves to do something that isn’t ‘fitting’ is wrong. It’s not that it’s wrong in an ethical or moral sense; it’s simply wrong in a sense that it doesn’t improve things. We explode. But I know this! I wrote about forcing on my blog. 

I need one of these. 

I’m all for writing a book, participating in NaNo when I’m ready to go; when I’ve got something with legs: go forth, write, edit, beg and publish. But if you love to write and you don’t have a clue as to what to write about and your heart’s not in it, then uhh… don’t force it. It’ll be obvious. We writers? Historically we are tortured, brilliant, sad, alcoholic, codependent and tragic people; there are enough of those in the world already... why add 'stupidly masochistic' to the list? Oh, that's right, because it sells.

I might be totally against the writerly establishment when I say all that, but I feel I must clarify: I’m not saying give up, I’m not saying don’t write and I’m not saying don’t push through, even though I sort of am. I’m saying this: write something else. Step away from the laptop. Use a pen and paper. Play Pictionary. Try a poem or a couple of dirty limericks. Take some photos or write in your journal. Don’t let your right brain dry up, just don’t beat it up. When the brain is fertile, the book will grow. 

I have books in my head, for sure. But not NaNo books; I say this at risk of sounding snobby, and it’s not what I mean at all. Rather it’s quite the opposite: my thinking is tragically pedantic: it’s the No in the word that gets me every time. I am not good with fiction (if you read my PPM interview, you’ll see this if this post hasn't convinced you). My every attempt at writing a novel becomes a poorly veiled memoir, sad and dressed in outdated and ill-fitting clothes, clicking on a broken stiletto, and with terribly bad hair despite blatant attempts to prove otherwise.

I'm not sure what this picture of Tara Reid has to do with this post other than the fact that it seemed to be the most appropriate for my vision of searching for "drunk but trying to fake sobriety" images. 

Who knows what I’ll do next. I’ve got some ideas in the hopper that if I disguise them well enough no one will ever be the wiser. No one. I’m talking alternate universes, amorphous plasma, vegetative, non-humanoid forms, laser appendages and stuff. But non-humanoid plasma that came from dysfunctional cosmic petri dishes who are dealing with serious behavior issues. That sounds easy enough.

So what about you? Do you force and then when you’re validated by someone else that the forcing is for naught, do you suddenly release? 

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