Subjective is Not a Dirty Word

What do you suppose you'd call it when you say something for your own benefit as much as for whomever you're talking to? Not 'preaching to the choir,' surely. Preaching to the pastor? Or maybe just 'talking to yourself"...

Right. Anyway. Today I'm talking to my choir-pastor self, as well as to you, so I hope one of us gets something out of it.

I'm a big fan of quotes. I love the sources quotes come from, too, but there's something about isolating a little snippet of wisdom or humor or profoundness from the midst of a work I love that really gives me a thrill. (I know... I'm pretty easy to thrill. Skydiving would probably kill me.) This is undoubtedly the reason I bumbled my way into a side-business based exclusively on the painting of quotes upon ceramic coffee mugs. (Incidentally, you could win one of my mugs if you enter the contest Freelance Writing Jobs is holding for the next two days. Just go to this link, and read and follow the instructions posted.)


An unexpected but surprisingly rewarding source for new quotes has, for me, been Pinterest. Today I discovered this one:

 (Source)

Edmund Wilson was a literary critic and writer in the 1920's, and influenced a lot of important writing minds. And I think his statement really drives home the reality of, not just the subjective nature of the publishing industry, but that of reading itself. Everyone who has ever submitted anything to anyone has probably read the words, "Given how subjective this business is," which can very quickly turn into one of the nastiest sentences in the English language. But it really shouldn't be. Because what it means is, "Just because I didn't love it does not mean that someone else won't." Or, "Keep sending this out, because someone out there will be a perfect fit for it."

I have, on several occasions, recommended a book to a friend or family member with the highest praise imaginable, only to have said friend or family member read--and positively hate--the book I loved. I invariably become hurt and defensive when I hear their reactions, because, to me, the book is like a child who can do no wrong. If I loved it, why on earth didn't you?

Well. Because we're different people. Because reading is subjective. And because "no two persons ever read the same book."

And what a relief that is! As much as we may be inclined to gnash our teeth at the words "subjective business," I think we really ought to be rejoicing. Because that means there is still hope. Even though it would be wonderful to write things that everyone in the world would adore, the fact is that people are too different for that kind of a miracle to be possible.

As Dumbledore tells Hagrid in Goblet of Fire, "Really Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal popularity, I'm afraid you will be in this cabin for a very long time."

Mind-boggling as it is, there are even people on this earth who don't like Harry Potter. And if that doesn't drive home Wilson's point, I don't know what will.

Thoughts? This didn't turn out quite as flippant and lighthearted as I meant it to, but what can you do? Maybe I'll devote my next post to a series of haikus enumerating the glories of David Tennant's freckles.

On Killing your Darlings & Traveling through Time and Space

Time flies, dunnit?

I've said before that I am an inconstant blogger, and I certainly won't take it back now. I hope you're all well out there. And I hope you've shaken hands with 2012 and found her to be charming.

I'm writing today on a subject I have recently had lots of first-hand experience with. It's the old revision tactic scientifically dubbed "killing your darlings." Familiar with it?

Given my druthers, I would always choose to edit like this:

Happy. Easy. Without any pain to myself or the manuscript. Just get rid of those dead leaves and weak sentences, and then I'm good to go. But it seems to me that the more I want to edit with the little pruning shears, the more I need to face the possibility that THIS is what really needs to happen:

I've recently been doing a lot of chainsawing. Consequently, I've killed a lot of darlings. (If you're foggy on this approach, follow this link.) I've been working on a YA fantasy novel for just over a year now, and after an autumn of garnering feedback from betas who read the draft, I found myself with a lot of ideas of ways to improve the book, but no real conviction about which way was the right one. And so, after a week or so of hideous panic, I made the decision to scrap the first third of the book and rewrite it from an entirely different point.

It felt like a setback, but I discovered right away that it was the right decision. Not because it allowed the book to begin in a more compelling and logical place (although it did do that), but because it loosened my death-grip on the petty things I had grown to love about the manuscript.

I don't know about you, but I love words. I love the way they interact with one another, like they're doing some kind of complicated dance on paper. Like most writers, I love to shape them into sentences and paragraphs and pages pregnant with meaning, and then sit back to watch them glitter. But too often I get attached, and it can take a chainsaw to separate me from a bit of prose I really like--even if the story would be better off without it. And that, I think, is what chainsaw editing is good for. It reminds you that your love for one darling may be choking the whole work. And once you learn to let go of one of the little things you're clinging to, you discover that it's much easier to let go of the next one.

And eventually, who knows? You may even find yourself in possession of that elusive lens we call Objectivity, and look at your work as a reader might.

On an unrelated note, I need to go public with some news: I have fallen in love with the Doctor.

I've resisted and resisted his invisible pull for years now, but about a week ago I finally gave in and started watching. In that brief time I have fallen head over heels, first for the Ninth Doctor, and now for the Tenth. (I am so immersed that I actually thought the whir of the push-vacuum at work was the sound of the TARDIS engine.) It's a glorious thing to find an untapped well of Nerddom simply waiting for you, don't you think? But oh, my poor, poor roommate... And I still have four and a half seasons to go!

 

So today's questions: How do you manage to look objectively at your work? Does it take chainsaws and darling-killing? And if you are afflicted, how do you manage to overcome Doctor Who Mania enough to live a normal life?