It’s time to start blogging and writing fiction more regularly now. I’ve recruited my college buddy Mike to be a deadline-giving ball-buster for my fiction. Deadlines are life for me, a typical procrastinator. I deliver a certain word count to Mike every Sunday. The deal is he can read them or not. What matters is the amount of words.
Mike has been such a huge help already. I don’t want to write too much about this deal we’ve entered, so as not to jinx it. But I just want to give him a shout out. Volunteering to be my “accountability boss” is a huge thing.
Another reason I am upping my word output is the expectations of the writing world. Paltry word counts just don’t make it. Sure, slow and steady can win a race now and then, but it won’t earn you many seeds in the next round.
This article, written by an agent, talks about how literary agents don’t want to hear how a writer took 3 years to produce a novel. Agents strive for “name recognition” and that sort of phenomenon is easier to keep up when books are banged out in short amounts of time.
Of course, there are exceptions to everything. Other agents would probably say “Depends on the previous book’s success.” I guess? But if you look at Paula Hawkins of “The Girl on the Train” fame, you’ll see a steady stream of books. One every two years, or thereabouts (she wrote earlier books, not all listed here, under the pen name “Amy Silver.”)
I’m reading her followup to TGOTT, Into the Water. It’s as entertaining, if not better. And she pumped that sucker out in less than two years total, judging by the timing. My guess is she spent 6 months writing it. That is lightning quick compared to my current speed.
Publishing is a business. This is a mantra everyone says all the time. Screenwriters are expected to punch out their products in two or three *weeks.* I can stand to up my daily word counts.
Part of that word count is fiction. Part is an already established professional job as a copy writer/blogger for clients. Part of it will be blogging here and at another hyperlocal blog I run in my town. Adding to this is another writing pastime I’ve posted about, snail mail letter writing. My life will become, even more than it is now, all about words, words, and more words. At least, that is my goal. I want to see what living like a productive and prolific writer is like. Wish me luck.
At the end of January 2019 my world wide web walkabouts brought me to LetterMo.com.
February 2019 was Letter Writing Month. LetterMo.com is all about hand-writing and sending snail mail to pen pals near and far. As part of a wider movement that seeks to revive this art of letter writing, LetterMo facilitates connections with whom to begin a pen pal friendship. So far on the site I have 22 contacts with whom I can exchange mail.
A whole wide world of mail
Until my friend Mari linked me to LetterMo, I had no idea such a large traditional mail movement existed. I should have thought about that — Everything retro gets a resurgence in times of rapid technological progress.
When I asked my fellow LetterMo participants for other pen pal sites, they flooded me with suggestions (thanks, friends!). Here are some of the hundreds of sites out there:
On my Facebook feed, I asked friends to message me their addresses if they wanted mail. LetterMo is flexible – “mail anyone” is the guideline. Your pen pals don’t have to be signed up for the challenge. I had 12 personal friends say “Hey! I want a letter!” When I asked friends if they wanted mail, it was in understanding that I would send them something for a nice little pick-me-up for them with no obligation to write back. On LetterMo, an exchange is the expectation.
On Mari’s suggestion, I built a tracking document of all the addresses, with columns to mark the outgoing and incoming pieces of mail. Organization is a fun thing for me as I am a data nerd at heart. Keeping it current is a chore sometimes but the record has already proven helpful. I take pictures of my letters and refer back to them so as not to repeat myself in subsequent mailings.
Another reason for record keeping is to track a particular piece of mail. When my first artistically-addressed envelope didn’t get to Mari quickly, I looked back at my records to estimate when it actually got to Philadelphia (local mail hub) for processing. Also, because I have photographic records as well, I could at least send her pictures if it was lost entirely. The envelope I sent Mari was heavily embellished, which made me worry it would not pass the United States Postal System’s muster. There’s a rumor that “unmachinable” envelopes can get tossed in the garbage by USPS. I was so worried my first attempt at “mail art” (as the kids on Pinterest call it) was going to be a big FAIL. It did get to Mari eventually. She says she’s including it in a mail journal! I’m so flattered.
For the month of February I managed to send out 28 pieces of mail (an average of 1 per day, which is what the LetterMo site encourages). Granted, some of those were postcards, which are easier to write and send than letters. Postcards are great ice breakers, though. When you’re writing to a stranger, it’s easier to just send a quick “Hello” at first.
About a week went by before I received any mail. In total in February I got about 19 pieces of mail. I am still receiving and sending this month (March 2019). Getting something in the post other than a bill or junk is always fun, but pulling out an actual letter addressed to you makes you feel like a kid again. When I realized I was sending that little spark of excitement to others, I just wanted to write more. It’s addictive, that spark!
Most of the mail I sent and received was standard. Note cards in regular envelopes. Some of the other LetterMo participants are creative whirlwinds, though. I received some breathtaking mail! One was an envelope filled with what is known as “ephemera” – paper embellishments to add to collages, envelopes and letters. You may recognize it as scrapbooking paraphernalia. Another was a semi “letter locked” note – folded almost like origami. Then just last week I received a letter book. It’s a mini scrapbook with a letter inside. It’s a work of art. I’d been drooling over them on Pinterest and then like magic, a LetterMo penpal sent me one! I was honored to get it. It obviously took so much time and creativity. And with it, my pen pal sent along a bag of tea! I’m going to drink it while I write her back.
One letter came with an authentic wax seal on it! I was so jazzed I made everyone in my family look at it and touch it. It was so beautiful, so traditional and lovely. I wondered if one day I’d get serious enough to add wax seals to my letter-writing endeavors. A few days later, a lady in my neighborhood posted a wax seal kit in the “free” group. I jumped at it! I picked up the brand new, 100% untouched kit later that day with my son. Once he saw what I dragged him along to get, he surprisingly was jazzed too! Apparently there are wax seals on the letters sent to Nintendo characters in the latest game, Super Smash Bros. Ultimate. My son wants to recreate the invitations for fun or a possible future cosplay.
Stationery and pens
All of this leads me down a path of wanting beautiful stationery and handwriting. For a Christmas gift I received some actual fountain pens and brush pens, and I’ve been teaching myself how to use them with library books and work sheets. Earlier this year I also attended the Philadelphia Pen Show. I bought some paper. I met a few pen traders and one or two calligraphers, but with fountain pens there priced up to $10,000, I doubt pen collecting will be part of this writer’s journey.
A few years ago, a friend gave me some high-end stationery for my birthday. I discovered during LetterMo that it took the fountain pen ink very well. I also discovered I get attached to stationery. I have one of designer Brenda Walton’s “Juliana” cards left out of a set I bought 2 decades ago. Sending it out or saving it in some sort of stationery archive is my dilemma right now. I’ve been “Kondoing” my house over the past several years. Starting a stationery collection doesn’t seem like my kind of thing, but it’s been really hard for me to give out the last of this set. I also have 1 sheet and envelope left that is of a Hindu/Indian aesthetic; I don’t want to send it out because it’s so unique. Both of these things have been sitting in my cupboard for literally decades. That’s silly. I should use them and look for more breathtaking papers to share.
Instagram has a ton of accounts to follow. Beautiful envelopes, letters and stamps can fill your feed daily if you so choose. Start with the LetterMo and Paperpostie accounts and you can fall down your own rabbit hole of mail art. Pinterest will suck you in on a “mail art” search even if you’re not interested in mail art. It’s just a fascinating medium. Those arted-up addresses actually do make it through the post (sometimes extra postage is necessary).
As you may surmise, I am pretty hooked on snail mail writing at this point. I’ve always loved paper, pens and ink. Paper crafts have been one of my go-to stress busters. Scrapbooking and origami never pulled me in but I’ve always loved collage, coloring, and drawing. Lately I’ve gotten into bullet journaling too. Letter writing is an obvious segue, especially when combined with some envelope art. And, I am a “writer” am I not? Writers write.
Speaking of work titles and vocations… Another side effect of the letter writing is I’ve re-discovered writing for its own sake. As you know, I’ve been an infrequent blogger here on PurpleCar. I’d like to start posting more regularly again, even if I’m just shouting out into the darkness. I journal every morning; Blogging isn’t much different. I’m hoping more writing begets more fiction writing and more confidence in all creative areas. LetterMo may have just been the thing to bring me back to center again for good. Wish me luck.
More letters to come!
For those of you I haven’t written to yet, no fear! I’m getting there. Stay tuned.
A coworker sneaks over to your desk and says “I have to tell you what happened!”
A neighbor calls over the hedge “Have I got a story for you!”
When a story is coming, we draw breath. Out hearts skip a beat. Our ears perk up. What, we wonder,could this be about?
We all know this magical, world-is-still moment. When we’re about to hear a new bit of gossip, anticipation fills us. The delight of victory may lie within any tale. Our veins may course with the vengeful grit of schadenfreude once the last word is told. A golden cloud of curious amazement may envelop us and never let us go. Especially eager are we to hear a tale told by a deft voice, a voice we trust as a skillful sculptor of time and words.
Diane Setterfield is that sculptor. She is by far one of my favorite storytellers. I first came upon her when I found her debut novel, The Thirteenth Tale, on the “New” shelf of my local library. The book’s cover was a hand-drawing of stacked books. The mysterious title pulled at me. I picked it up, and I didn’t put it down. You may wonder why I’ve never reviewed it on this blog. I don’t know if I ever will. It almost means too much to me; I wouldn’t be able to convey my love for it with a mere blog post. It has become one of my most sacred texts.
So. Yes. When a writer ends up in your “holy canon” pile naturally you will read every word she writes (even tweets).
I’ve read and reviewed Ms. Setterfield’s second book Bellman & Black (I should say Dr. Setterfield – she’s a literature professor in England). Bellman & Black was an entirely different book than her first, although still steeped in the gothic genre she so expertly and modernly painted in The Thirteenth Tale. Once Upon A River is another deep dive into the setting of 1800s rural England, but again Setterfield delivers a completely different tale in a fully-fleshed and original narrative voice. In Once Upon A River, Setterfield —or her narrator— is telling us a story directly. She addresses us as “you:”
There was once an inn that sat peacefully on the bank of the Thames at Radcot, a day’s walk from the source. There were a great many inns along the upper reaches of the Thames at the time of this story and you could get drunk in all of them, but beyond the usual ale and cider each one had some particular pleasure to offer. The Red Lion at Kelm- scot was musical: bargemen played their fiddles in the evening and cheesemakers sang plaintively of lost love. Inglesham had the Green Dragon, a tobacco-scented haven of contemplation. If you were a gambling man, the Stag at Eaton Hastings was the place for you, and if you preferred brawling, there was nowhere better than the Plough just outside Buscot. The Swan at Radcot had its own specialty. It was where you went for storytelling.
Diane Setterfield. Once Upon A River: A Novel. 2018. Page 1. Paragraph 1.
Setterfield’s opening pages remind me of Dickens telling us to note something important in A Christmas Carol:
“The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.”
Charles Dickens. A Christmas Carol. 1843. Page 1. Paragraph 3.
In Once Upon A River, Setterfield is like Dickens. She is almost sitting, candlelit, recounting the tale just for us. The effect is delightful. At the moment you notice she is addressing you, your heart skips a beat. You draw breath. “Oh,” you realize, “this is a Story.”
In Once Upon A River’s beginning pages, Setterfield gives the reader the lay of the land, namely the Swan Inn at Radcot and its inhabiting characters. She tells of how “Dreams and stories merge with lived experience” at the Swan, the little and ancient Inn on the river Thames that is known for its entertaining storytellers. It’s a place where “… the dead and the living brush against each other in their comings and goings, and the past and present touch and overlap.” We are warned, again, that in such a place “Unexpected things can happen.”
Before we hear the tale, we are to wonder, what really happened?“You will have to judge for yourself,” the narrator says. “…Now you know everything you need to know, the story can begin.”
What follows is a tale of great victory, a story of sad schadenfreude, a whispered myth of innocent wonder. As the story continues, the narrator’s strong voice in the beginning of the novel expertly fades into each character’s mind; you feel like you’re hearing the tale flow from its very source – the characters themselves. The transition is as seamless as a calm river’s waters; It is smoother than a toddler’s cheek. I find myself woefully undereducated in the ways of great literature to properly give Ms. Setterfield her due. To a novice fiction-writer like myself, this amazing transition is magic. Diane Setterfield is a master storyteller. You should read her work. …
That is the end of the book review.
Now for my story. It starts with questions:
“What am I doing?”
“Can I do this?”
“Why is it such a struggle? Maybe it’s a sign I should give up.”
Often these questions arise when I am sitting at my writing table.
I don’t know which part of my story we’re in. I may be at the beginning of my writing journey, where my first novel is the hardest hill to mount. This could be the middle, where after many, many years of trying to teach myself fiction writing I am in the dragging “this is where I give up” depths. The scariest option is this may be the end, where I finally close the book for good.
Great writing like Setterfield’s always sets me to thinking: Do I really want to write fiction? I’ve loved my years as a blogger and content writer, but I’ve struggled with my fiction project. I’m confident in my blogging skills. With fiction writing, not so much.
Diane Setterfield’s skill doesn’t discourage me. I’m OK with knowing I won’t likely ever get to her level. But will I ever get the confidence to forge forward with my fiction writing, at whatever level I can achieve? Will it ever be as natural to me as writing this blog post? Many days you can find me searching for yet more training, for more books on plot and character, for more tips and tricks. I’m always seeking out that magic formula that will bring all my adrift story skiffs securely ashore.
Like one of the Swan Inn’s drunken patrons, I stumble through the dark English woods with no lamp to light my way. I continue on because I’m driven to tell my story to a willing listener. Is this what all writers experience? Is this the typical flow chart of this program? I don’t know. As I said, I look for clues anywhere I can find them.
Like a miracle (but to be expected from this generous and wise author), Ms. Setterfield delivers one of those clues. Once Upon A River: A Novel is, at its very core, a beautiful, reverent ode to storytelling. On each page, the book declares our common love of telling and listening to stories. Ms. Setterfield is there, behind her narrator, whispering encouragement to me and any other hidden writer with the same dream. On Page 2 she writes:
“By force of repetition you would become adept at the telling. And then, when the crisis was over and you turned your attention to other things, what is more natural than that this newly acquired expertise would come to be applied to other tales?”
After my last post about image management, you may find it amusing that I’m deleting tweets and Facebook (FB) posts. I’m not deleting my accounts. I’m just deleting posts. I’m leaving all my Pinterest pins and every other social network I’ve posted on, but those two biggies are undergoing a serious purge. I’ve left a whole lot of funny, serious, disrespectful, reverent and crazy tweets and posts in my wake. In general, it’s a mess. I’m cleaning it up.
I’m feeling a bit differently about deleting posts from each platform, though.
Back in the early days of Twitter, deleting tweets was considered to be quite poor form. The culture seemed to honor each and every post as sacred, and those who could not stand behind what they tweeted were seen as the worst self-serving dregs of internet society. Deleting tweets just wasn’t done, and those who dared were automatically assumed to be guilty of some egregious trespass and in dire need to cover their tracks.
That was over a decade ago. Times have changed.
Now, keeping a record of all your posts does little to serve you and is more likely to work against you. Any tweets older than 6-12 months usually serve very little good purpose for the account owner. No-one is looking at tweets 6-12 months old. Providing data for others who would use them for nefarious purposes isn’t the smartest move. Not only are the ad bots annoying and invasive, the climate of online culture has gotten downright vicious. People have been fired for 5-year-old tweets. Is keeping your stream in tact worth risk to your livelihood? Sure, you may stand behind everything you tweeted, but anything can look bad taken out of context. Jokes especially do not age well. And I’ve not been known to keep it serious on Twitter these last 11 years. So out it goes.
As I delete FB posts (by hand, for various reasons, the main one being there isn’t a satisfactory way to do it otherwise), I am feeling guilty. I am erasing Likes as well as posts. I’m untagging myself. I’m hiding things from my timeline that I can’t delete. Erasing myself from my friends’ “histories” tugs at my heartstrings. The thought of them going back to a post and not seeing my comment that perhaps they really appreciated (maybe?) makes me sad. In reality, though, very few of them will ever review their old posts, and if they do they won’t remember I was in the conversation. One friend did mention that it was a shame all my amusing posts would be gone. I didn’t ask if he regularly reviews old posts. I just felt sorry.
Facebook especially is a data stalker, and, simply put: I don’t feel comfortable with a long trail of data being present there anymore. And I am protecting my friends. The next time I’m targeted by a troll, I don’t want my friends to be trolled, too. A friend list is one thing but a troll may stalk my comments on their posts and begin to harass them too. I understand the situation is unlikely. Protecting my friends from any potential privacy invasions is yet another reason to erase my past presence on their Pages.
One friend mentioned archive sites may still have a hold of my tweets and perhaps even FB posts. Sure. But unless data crawlers are looking for my archive specifically (which, why would they?) then the archives don’t do me much data-trail harm. At least, not yet. Where the archives can do me harm today is this: one troll who is searching for a tweet that could seem damning out of context could trawl the archives. Thankfully internet archive sites can be spotty, and the typical call-out culture trolls tend to search the current Twitter site, not the archives. (Europe’s “Right to Be Forgotten” laws would be handy here in deleting those archives. We don’t have those protections here in the U.S.)
When I get to feeling nostalgic or panicky about my old tweets and FB posts, I remind myself that this is just the internet. It isn’t life. Many people don’t use FB or Twitter and their lives hum along normally. I’m not ending friendships; I’m deleting tweets. I can’t place too much value on data I barely own and was constructed with not much thought. Those posts may have been useful for a few seconds, maybe a few minutes, or a day if I hit a trend. It’s only garbage now.
Will this change the way I post? Yes. The vicious climate online had already affected my posting behaviors, so I expect that same level of caution to continue. But now that I’m realizing how difficult it is to delete these two particular data trails, I will definitely rethink every post. Instead of Liking and Commenting, I’ve been increasing my use of FB Messenger (via the browser version) and texting my friends more often.
I have not yet cleared out my Instagram profile (which is public) or my Flickr pages. I’ll consider doing that, too, but it is much harder to twist meanings of photos or trawl them for metadata that directly relates to me. That will change as bots get more sophisticated, of course.
Right now my concern is more immediate. I must decide whether or not to put my Instagram account on the private setting. I’m definitely leaning toward this although I have long been a public-stream kind of person. Since FB is a walled garden, it makes sense for Instagram to be. The days of the public stream on any site are probably over. Public streams will be left for brands and businesses, and the individual private streams will be standard. That’s how I see this all going. FB isn’t private enough, though, and I don’t know if it ever will be.
We’ll just have to keep cleaning until we no longer make any mess.