"What Would You Rather Write?"

or, Answering the Impossible Question

Earlier this week, literary agent & author @WeronikaJanczuk asked writers on Twitter about the diversity of their craft.

For those of you novelists, is the novel your primary writing medium or do you pen short stories, poetry, etc., in addition to books?

Most of the respondents said they stayed mostly in the realm of the novelist, though some dabbled in short stories. I read their comments, sighed, and felt alone.

The same day, Lonny Dunn (@ProNetworkBuild) asked me the same question.

@MuseInks do you like novel writing more than screenwriting?

To which I replied, “Depends on what I'm working on at the time.”

He said he thought my answer vague and gave me an easy out: “mustabeenbusy.”

Which got me thinking.

Yes, I am busy. (Praises be!) But I wasn’t trying to be vague or elusive.

To me, asking whether I’d rather write a screenplay or a novel is like asking whether I’d prefer to watch a movie or read a book. Or whether I prefer sunsets or conversation. My answer would be the same:

It depends.

My main source of income is writing non-fiction. I also write novels, screenplays & songs. I can't imagine choosing only 1 medium (novels, scripts, poetry) & eschewing the others. Each has its own magic.

Screenplays are the creative equivalent of sunsets. They follow a pre-ordained, immutable structure. They hold little interest to those with limited vision. They color the world for a finite period of time. They can be experienced either alone or with a group. And they all end with “fade out.”

Screenwriting requires me to indulge the visual.

Since film is the medium of sight, the stories that work best on film are those that must be seen to be experienced.

Battles take place in all their blood, grit, and gory glory.

Lovers demonstrate their passion.

Heroes save the day in irrefutable Technicolor.

Everyone who sees a film enjoys the same shared vision. Actors, actions, sounds, and sequences; all exist as a visual constant to every person who watches the movie.

Where screenplays are concerned, the story lives because we see it happen.

If screenplays are sunsets, then novels are conversations.

A conversation requires commitment and involvement from more than one person. Conversations are not passive experiences. They must be entered into in order to be enjoyed. A conversation may happen between two people who afterward remember it differently or reach different conclusions.

The experience of reading means that I must engage the brain, willingly put another’s ideas into my mind, and use my imagination to breathe life into the words on the page.

When I write a book, only words will connect me to my readers. Five people could read the same book and each have a different idea of what the characters look like, act like, and sound like.

As a novelist, I can enter a character’s head and expose that character’s thoughts, but it’s up to the reader to sift through, analyze, and evaluate them.

In novel writing, the only color I have at my disposal is black ink on white paper. With this monochromatic palette, I must paint scenes of vivid word pictures that color my readers’ fantasies and spark memories they never knew they had.

I know that hearing a novel writer say he or she also writes screenplays is anathema to many agents. (Don’t believe me? See what the Estimable Query Shark has to say on writers who also want to work in film.) But I don’t understand this. To me, it’s like saying a dressage horse should never learn to jump. Or that you can learn downhill skiing OR Thai cooking, but not both.

I’ve spoken to screenwriters who shy away from writing a novel. I know novelists who are cowed by the rules of screenwriting. Members of both camps bemoan the fact that screenwriting and book writing each exercise different writing muscles and require different skills.

Well, duh.

Writers write. Why wouldn’t a writer want to develop new skills?

One can learn to play the piano AND the guitar. They’re not mutually exclusive. Each discipline simply has its own fundamentals that must be mastered before the experience is as enjoyable to the audience as to the artist.

In life, as in art, I have many interests. I adore sunsets and conversation, movies and books, screenwriting and novel writing.

So you see, it’s impossible for me to answer whether I’d rather write novels or scripts. It’s equally impossible to say whether I like writing non-fiction books more or less than writing songs. That’s akin to asking whether I prefer sunsets to conversation, or riding over eating. Each fills a different niche in my life better than anything else could.

I write many different things in many different genres, mediums, and styles. Some things I write for money – to feed my family. Some I write for myself – to feed my soul.

And I cling stubbornly to the belief that I am not alone.

What’s your preference? Sunsets or conversation? Or both? Or neither? Comment below and let me know.

The Art of Christmas Wishes

A picture paints a thousand words...and several thousand words can paint a picture. I love the wall hangings from Postertext. Tops on my Christmas list are The Great Gatsby and Through The Looking Glass.

The creators used the text from the books and arranged it to depict a scene from the story. Cool, huh? Art that crosses mediums to be -- more art.

It inspires me that books written decades, centuries, lifetimes ago can continue to speak to readers today. That notion is what compels those of us who write to press onward.

It tempers the criticism our work inevitably receives.

It encourages us to persevere in the face of rejection.

It motivates us to complete what we start -- even though we may be the only ones currently clamoring to know What Happens Next.

It's the green light at the end of a dock, winking across the waters, teasing us with the possibilities.

It's the feeling of disappearing entirely into the world we create in the hopes of making that world real for someone else.

One of my Christmas wishes is for every writer struggling to break into print to experience the thrill of acceptance. But remember -- whether that particular wish comes true for you this year, I still believe that the thrill of creation far outweighs the joy of publication... At least in this writer's book.

And so my larger wish is for every writer to discover anew the passion that fuels the art -- and find the time to indulge it!

Editor and literary agent's intern Cassandra Marshall wants to know: What do you want for Christmas? Telling her (and providing a link to the object of your desire) could win you a nifty stocking stuffer: a FREE EDIT of a FULL MANUSCRIPT!  How's that for a wish come true!

What's your wish? Comment below, and we'll dream together!

The Big BEE Event

Last week, Conan O'Brien imagined Oprah "gifting" her audience with angry bees.



Conan's point, I suppose, is that the audience's reaction would be the same whether they were just presented with new cars or an irate swarm.

This is the sort of CGI stunt that makes my 7 y.o. inclined to disbelieve everything she sees.

As I watched the footage, however, I was reminded of what Simon Buxton, author of The Shamanic Way of the Bee says in the film "Vanishing of the Bees":

"The future of beekeeping is not in one beekeeper with 60,000 hives, but rather 60,000 people with one hive."

...and I think if Oprah had given her audience members bees, she could have done worse. In fact, if she ever DOES decide to give the gift of bees, she should get in touch with my friend, beekeeper extraordinaire, Randy Sue Collins. Randy Sue could set both Oprah AND Conan straight on how great such a gift would be.

It's no secret that bees are in danger. Colony Collapse Disorder - when entire hives of healthy, honey-making bees simply leave, never to return - poses real concerns not only for these beneficial insects, but also for humanity. We depend on bees to pollinate roughly 1/3 of our food crops. Albert Einstein's (probably apocryphal) observation that if all the bees of the world were to die, mankind would follow in less than 4 years rings frighteningly true.

One of the things I love about what I do is the fact that I get to meet fascinating, knowledgeable people who are tops in their field. Randy Sue is no exception. She spends much of her time educating schools and other organizations about the importance of bees and the joys of beekeeping.

Randy Sue's brand new video on Organic Beekeeping is the definitive work on understanding, cultivating, and living in harmony with honeybees. I'm honored to be involved in its launch. It speaks to those who are interested in learning about the nature of these insects, to avid gardeners, to people wanting to harvest their own honey, and to all who are interested in keeping honeybees happy and healthy for generations to come.

A one-day "Organic Beekeeping 101" DVD Launch Event happens on Friday, December 3. On that day, everyone who orders Randy Sue's delightful DVD receives a slew of cool, added bonuses to sweeten the deal.

It may not be the equivalent of giving audience members new cars. But for those who get the DVD and put what they learn from it to use, it could open their eyes to the wonderful world of honeybees.

Who knows? Maybe they'll start a write-in campaign for Oprah to give away bees next time.

A Writer's Thanksgiving Prayer

Dear Lord,

I know You probably think this is going to be yet another prayer asking for an agent – much like most of my earlyteen conversations with You involved fervent pleas that You send me a horse -- but it’s not.

For one thing, we’ve covered the agent issue enough lately that I am confident it remains foremost in my file.

For another, it’s Thanksgiving. I just wanted to take some time to say “Thank You.”

I give thanks that people like Sooki and Kim Kardashian have book deals. Every time I start to get discouraged and suspect that that perhaps my writing isn’t good enough to get published, You have provided shining beacons to remind me that many publishers truly don’t care about the quality of the written words they put into print.

I thank You for the Buffy reboot. (Though someone must have made a deal with You-Know-Who to cut Joss Whedon out of the action.) And for the Superman reboot. Every time I come to You asking for new inspiration, simply point me toward these testaments that the industry isn’t looking for something new.

Thank You for giving me friends and family who literally could not care less about what I write. I don’t think any of them have read the book I had published this year – and that’s ok. They’re not horse trainers. They’re not the target audience. They make me realize that there is more to life than just work.

Thank You, too, for my clients and friends in the film and publishing industry. For they do care about my career. They continue to challenge and encourage me. I know while You were here, You had a few close friends who cared about what You were trying to do. I’m eternally grateful for the pros You’ve introduced to me. We all support each other as we continue onward and upward. It’s a blessing to know that I’m not in this alone.

Thank You that though I have yet to make the New York Times bestseller list, I will still be able to put more food on my table tomorrow than many people on this planet will see in a month. I may sound glib, but I’m not. I am deeply, profoundly grateful to be able to feed not only my family but also the friends who will share Thanksgiving with us.

I cannot thank You enough that I don't have to fly this holiday season. Getting groped and scanned by gruff, irritable people always puts me a little off my thankfulness game.

(I'm not presuming to tell You how to do Your job, but here's a thought: inspire someone with clout to mandate that all our elected officials undergo the same TSA screening as those of us who voted them into office. I bet that would instigate some changes that would make many travelers sing Your praises.)

I am exceedingly thankful that I live in a country that still lets me talk to You -- or not -- on my own terms.

I’m also thankful that the furnace and electricity works, the car runs, and we’re all relatively healthy. I realize that some of the things I regularly complain about others would welcome as a blessing.



Finally, I thank You that I was not born a turkey. Seriously. I’m grateful.

Thank You for hearing my prayer and for blessing me and my family through this past year. Special thanks for eventually granting my horse request. Now, about that agent...

Cake or Death?

St. Joseph native James Frey is back in the publishing news again. He's the literary establishment's equivalent of Brittney Spears or Levi Johnston: tabloid fodder guaranteed to generate controversy.

(Long-term readers may remember my Frey-based rants back in 2006 when fallout from his fictitious memoir hit the proverbial fan and when Oprah lambasted him for lying. I mentioned him again last May when Oprah reversed her earlier decision and apologized to Frey for saying that his lying to her was a bad thing. I have nothing against Mr. Frey. Honestly. It's just that he keeps doing stuff that merits... discussion.)

Yesterday's post brings us up to speed on Frey's latest Death-By-Dishonor venture: the book packaging company and intellectual property black hole of Full Fathom Five.

Their motto should be: "Why Should You Profit From Your Words if We Can Instead?"

For a fascinating dissection of Full Fathom Five's contract, see YA Writer Maureen Johnson's blog post that also takes prestigious MFA programs to task for graduating students gullible (or desperate) enough to sign such a contract.

Here's the thing: James Frey is not evil. He may be a huckster, a liar, and a fraud, but he is not holding a gun to the heads of these writers and forcing them to sign their lives away. He's only capitalizing on inherent flaws in a system that includes self-appointed gatekeepers and elevates platforms over merit.

This is the system that publishes Snooki's novel and the "memoir" of 16 year old Justin Bieber.

It's the system that puts a multitude of "Cat Who" books in print when every reader and writer knows that if an unpublished author were to submit any one of the last 10 titles in the series for publication, they would meet with instant and unequivocal rejection.

It's a system built upon desperation. And Full Fathom Five's stable of overtalented, underpaid, uberdesperate writers only shows what the going rate for "desperate to be published" is.

$250.

I am not disparaging work-for-hire writing contracts. Far from it. The first book I ever wrote that got into print was a write-for-hire. I made enough money writing it to put food on my family's table. It gave me the opportunity to work with a brilliant horse trainer. It introduced me to a wonderful group of publishing professionals. It provided the impetus that drove several other book deals that weren 't write-for-hire.

However, in the past year, I turned down a "sure thing" ghostwriting project. The book would have been published. I would have had the chance to work with a legend in his field. I would have made significantly more than $250. But it wouldn't have been enough to live on.

Since I know how much time it takes me to write a book from scratch start to polished end, the project literally would have paid me pennies per hour. I suggested a more equitable compensation for my time, but our numbers were too disparate.

So we parted ways (amiably) and moved on.

The brilliant comedian Eddie Izzard has a classic routine in which he asks "Cake or Death?"



Obviously, if given the choice, no one in his or her right mind would choose "death." But one could easily substitute the words "creative career or Frey cook?" Evidently, at least 28 would choose the second option.

As long as there are writers desperate for publication, there will be people ready and willing to exploit their talents. In any case, someone's going to make a killing.

Full Fathom Five: Thy Father Lies

or Why Writers Should Shy Away from Signing With Death

Last week, both the Wall Street Journal and New York Magazine took a long look at St. Joseph homeboy James Frey.

WSJ's piece, written by Katherine Rosman and Lauren A. E. Schuker, is the kinder, gentler one. With some puzzlement, its final paragraph states, "There is still residual hostility toward Mr. Frey" for his 2006 antics in which he wrote a work of fiction and told the world it was true.

One can almost picture the WSJ staff scratching their heads at such ill will, for the rest of the piece focuses primarily on his financial successes ("His debut book... was named Amazon Book of the Year and has sold eight million copies in more than 30 languages") and on namedropping his current affiliates (Michael Bay, Stacey Snider, Steven Spielberg... The list of luminaries goes on and on.).

New York Magazine, in contrast, ran an "Emperor's New Clothes" style article in its Books section wherein Suzanne Mozes exposed the New-York Times bestselling writer's Full Fathom Five book packaging company.

The article explained how Frey trolled prestigious MFA programs in search of drones to do his dirty work writing. It painted a word portrait of a man who was intemperate, unapologetic, charismatic, and ballsy. It evoked nothing so much as a mental image of the Wicked Witch of the West auditioning flying monkey minions.



According to both articles, Frey is looking for talented writers to work for next to nothing creating content that he oversees. The contract they sign specifies that they will be paid in peanuts 2 installments of $250 each, if they're lucky. It also says that the writer's name may or may not appear as author and that Frey owns all content created for his company.

Understandably, the pieces provoked significant discussion among the publishing pros (writers, agents, publishers, and editors) I follow on Twitter. While all agree that Frey isn't technically doing anything illegal, few are condoning his actions. For it is painfully obvious to anyone even remotely affiliated with the publishing industry that Frey's business model is just the sort of thing your mother warned you about when you said you wanted to be a writer.

We writers spend much of our time writing words that will garner more rejection in a single month than Big Bang Theory's Howard Wolowitz will have to endure in a lifetime. So when someone comes along and suggests that we have talent, that he believes in us, and that he will get us published, it's enough to make us beg for a pen so we can sign a deal with the Devil Full Fathom Five.

Ah, how we imperil ourselves and our careers when we forget the classics. Of course, the whole situation smacks of Faust. But the name of Frey's company alone should engender feelings of panic and the desire to wash oneself thoroughly with germicide. It should sound nigglingly familiar to any writer worth his or her pay. For Shakespeare coined the phrase before Frey used it. In The Tempest, Ariel sings:

Full fathom five thy Father lies,
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a Sea-change
Into something rich & strange.
Sea-Nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong!
Hark! Now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.

In other words: Dad is dead and lost in the depths of the sea.

Which is where your self-esteem, your credibility, and, in all probability, your writing career will end up if you sign on Full Fathom Five's dotted line.

(In case you misunderstand me, I'm not at all against write-for-hire agreements. I have some experience with them, you see, and they have served me and my career well. Tomorrow's post will explore this topic further in "Cake or Death.")

What's your take on the Frey-for-all? Would you sign? What's the minimum amount you'd write for? Drop a comment below. But remember -- play nice.

Self-Censorship

Last month, several people I follow on Twitter had an honest discussion about self-censorship. They shared stories of pulling back on their words and hiding what they wrote. I was struck by the honesty and the underlying sadness of the exchange and asked if one or more of them would be willing to share their experiences with my readers. I am very grateful to Michael T. Rusk (Twitter: @DeciduousTree) for rising to the challenge and providing today's guest post.

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There was a time in my early life when I wrote what I thought and felt in real time. Some came out as poetry, some as prose and some ended up as songs. The subject matter was either satirical, poking at the establishment and people in power or disturbingly dark sexual references and anti-religion. The first set of writings were somewhat acceptable in a public venue and our folk trio, including my soon to be wife, sang some of the songs at assemblies in our Catholic high school. A couple of the times there were audible gasps as I poked fun of the Principal, an imposing and feared nun.

I continued to write in my first year of college, feeding off the growing anger against the Viet Nam war and the simmering racial unrest. I never gave any thought that my writing was connected to real life in a way that could affect employment. I worked on a highly secure military facility at the time as a co-op student. Che Guevara and Malcolm X writings were common companions in my briefcase. I was oblivious to the uproar it would cause if I was discovered reading this on the base.

We got married between Christmas and New Years, 1967. Working full time, enrolled full time in college and starting a family took a lot of my time. I continued to write as much as I could but my wife was very uncomfortable with my subjects. She had a deeply ingrained mindset that a person should never write anything down.

She continued the criticism and warnings until my passive-aggressive personality made me put the writings away. They stayed away for a very long time. Until I heard Terry McMillan answering a question posed by a student regarding Terry’s concern about how her mother would react if she read Terry’s books. Terry’s answer struck deep in my heart – “I write for myself. I don’t think about how other people will react.”

Her 1993 comment was enough to unlock my pent up writing. I was suffering through very turbulent emotional times. Repressed hostility and hatred was festering in my brain. I wrote poem after poem spewing forth my emotions, draining the toxic venom from my body. The cathartic effect probably saved my life. I continued, underground, only a few close colleagues knew of my writings and offered feedback.

I changed jobs and started what would have been a modern day blog. It was written and printed with a strict rule of one page limit. I was one of the troops and I resumed my satirical, sarcastic mode of writing poking fun at the leaders of the company while delivering nuggets of real information. First issues had a circulation of 12 just for the people in the department. It wasn’t long before other people in the company requested copies and within a year the subscription list included most of the employees.

As luck would have it, I advanced rapidly in the hierarchy of the company until I was one of the Chiefs. Still pumping out my newsletter but it was becoming increasingly difficult to poke fun of senior management since I was one. Besides, I knew too much inside information and I had a hard time not telling the folks about it. It was extremely difficult to keep things light when I knew we were going to do a layoff. I suspended publishing for a couple of weeks prior just so I didn’t have to deal with it.

By this time, the delivery was through email and copies were being forwarded to family and friends. I decided to go public, remove the proprietary company content and target a general audience. There was enough material in the DC area that I could draw on to have a good time in the same style. My family became interested in reading my material. Not thinking, I added my wife and her friend to the subscription list. My wife was a frequent subject of some of my humor, “wifey-poo”, never in a mean way but just what I considered funny situations. She was immediately offended by these references.

I began to get a lot of orders of what not to put in my newsletters regarding “private” information. Turns out “private” was a very broad term which I couldn’t avoid violating at least once in every edition. The final straw was just after our first grandchild was born. I proudly announced the fact to the subscribers in my newsletter – not all the private details just name, size, weight – the normal things you’d see on a birth announcement. My wife went ballistic when I got home. Somehow, she felt I had stolen my son’s thunder! We had a rather heated debate, until I went silent.

That was the last issue of “Mikey’s Muse”, May 16, 1997.

Along comes Twitter, February, 2010. I started by following random people based on their tweet content (plus how cute the avatar was). The selection process favored authors, artists, creators and for some reason political activists. I felt inspired and started to venture back into writing, creating a blog and posting some short stories. But the old feelings of hiding, sneaking, being underground came back to me. I minimized screens when my wife would walk in. She assumed I was having an affair and hiding my conversations with my girlfriend.

I finally told her what I was doing so she could quit worrying about a girlfriend. In retrospect I should have let her keep on thinking it was a girlfriend. I got the standard lecture about how things written will come back to haunt you, what if your boss sees what you write, what are you writing about the family, maybe the family doesn’t want you mentioning them … on and on and on.

I went back to my computer, my Twitter friends, my Blog and thought about my life past and life future. Trying to decide if any of my writing was worth all this upset and confrontation. Here I was, either going to start self-censoring again or quit writing and find some other creative outlet. I had to consider 42 years of marriage, constantly being criticized for expressing myself, trying to avoid conflict, but look forward to our golden years living in our nice home, comfortable, status quo … it was quite a fork in the road.

So, I chose to quit … my marriage.

Epilogue: It’s been a little over two months since our separation and I’ve settled into a cozy one bedroom apartment. The setup provides the creative space I craved, the ultimate writer’s workshop. I converse freely with my friends on Twitter and can write behind the scenes on my book. However, I have felt very reluctant to post anything to my blog since the legal work is still in progress for the divorce. Ironically, I don’t want to post anything that can be used against me.

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Do you have any experiences with self-censorship? Have you ever been worried that what you write can be used against you? Have you ever had your words come back to haunt you? I invite you to comment below. And keep on keeping on.