I don't care about making deals. I don't care about whether they decide to make a movie about it or if it spawns an entire series of novels or if kids will line up outside of the bookstore in the costumes my book inspires.
What I want is a connection.
So the journey of my book will be a myriad of relationships. The first connection are the connections I've already established - the family who have all taught me how to move about in the world, who inspire me in every way giving me moments to reflect on and to write on, who continuously push me to be a better person and who never for a minute give me any leeway, who never allow me any excuses - the men and women out here in the bay whom I've shaped into my family who continue to support the person I've become - the people on the bus, in the streets, in the mall, who are only meant to inspire me for that second, for that moment. This is the first connection.
The second connection will be my pen to the page. Connecting with the art, connecting with the space, the history surrounding me, and connecting with the story that's meant to be told - not how I would tell the story, but how the story would tell itself (thank you Ruth Foreman for that little tidbit).
After that, the book goes into print. It will be printed with a small press, preferably pacific islander. It will first explode on the literary scene in hawaii (an explosion looks like a splattering of readings, book signings, connections with other pacific islander writers etc as in I'll finally be let into the pacific islander writer circle where I will meet Albert Wendt and tell him about the first time I met him years ago at a Bamboo Writers Workshop and totally did not know it was him and actually tried to debate with him and then we'll laugh about it) and then will make its way to New Zealand and Samoa and Fiji, then eventually, at the school I'll create for girls, it'll make it to the Marshall Islands. It will be incorporated into Pacific Island creative writing classes - all over.
That's when the third connection will be made. The most important connection.
I want a young Marshallese person, girl or boy, to pick up my book at random (maybe it's a birthday present maybe it's at a library or even lame ass barnes and nobles) and read it and love it - love it the way I've loved books, like it was made for them because that's who I wrote it for - for them. I want them to love it so much they don't feel like they're alone anymore. I want them to read it and hug it to themselves like it's their best friend and know that they're not alone, that someone's out there trying to tell their story just as much as they're trying to tell their own stories.
I want the final journey of my book to be in their bag, beaten up and weathered by oily fingerprints and sandwiches from their school cafeteria, stashed away in their trunks for college and then on their bookshelves, where they will finally give it to their children and say
"This book. Read it. It was made for our people."
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Decisions, Decisions!
Cliche image du jour: I am standing at a fork in the road, trying to decide whether to take the path on the left, or the one on the right.
To follow the left road would be to take Fiction Avenue. It's foggy in places, because some details and important plot points have yet to be imagined. But there are interesting landmarks along this road too. A soon-to-be college student who works at one of those little old privately-owned bookstores (think Pegasus or Laurel), a soon-to-be second-time mom whose passion lies in the the delicate art of cake decorating, a little half-sister who has no idea that she is part of a much bigger picture than she could ever have imagined. The silly thing is, I have to figure out the stakes, where these characters are headed, what challenges they must face, how their paths eventually come to cross. I have a rough idea, but as I say, this road is foggy. It's a tempting road, though; I sorely miss my fiction roots.
To take the right road, on the other hand, would be to embark on a journey down Memoir Boulevard. There is less fog here, because the details are clearer, based on my own experiences throughout most of my life. Peanut wars between cousins, exciting golf-cart rides up and down rolling hills, skipping rocks on the beach, renting movies to watch in the condo while being serenaded by the distant sound of crashing waves, snorkeling, jacuzzi-shmoozing, souvenir shopping, bouncy boat rides...the list goes on...and on...and on... The only problem with this road, from a writer's perspective, is that it is a little bit too...flat. In discussing the idea with another one of my professors, she said, "That's all fine and good, but what is the 'so what?' factor? What's at stake here?" That was a question I honestly didn't know how to answer. Said professor told me that while this was a nice idea, it sounded like a lot of descriptive detail and telling what happened, and little else. So, if I travel down Memoir Boulevard, I have to develop some sort of storyline, to organize sixteen years worth of memoir in space and time, to make it relevant to someone besides me. Ummm....help?
I am standing at a fork in the road, trying to decide whether to take the path on the left, or the one on the right.
- Kelsey
To follow the left road would be to take Fiction Avenue. It's foggy in places, because some details and important plot points have yet to be imagined. But there are interesting landmarks along this road too. A soon-to-be college student who works at one of those little old privately-owned bookstores (think Pegasus or Laurel), a soon-to-be second-time mom whose passion lies in the the delicate art of cake decorating, a little half-sister who has no idea that she is part of a much bigger picture than she could ever have imagined. The silly thing is, I have to figure out the stakes, where these characters are headed, what challenges they must face, how their paths eventually come to cross. I have a rough idea, but as I say, this road is foggy. It's a tempting road, though; I sorely miss my fiction roots.
To take the right road, on the other hand, would be to embark on a journey down Memoir Boulevard. There is less fog here, because the details are clearer, based on my own experiences throughout most of my life. Peanut wars between cousins, exciting golf-cart rides up and down rolling hills, skipping rocks on the beach, renting movies to watch in the condo while being serenaded by the distant sound of crashing waves, snorkeling, jacuzzi-shmoozing, souvenir shopping, bouncy boat rides...the list goes on...and on...and on... The only problem with this road, from a writer's perspective, is that it is a little bit too...flat. In discussing the idea with another one of my professors, she said, "That's all fine and good, but what is the 'so what?' factor? What's at stake here?" That was a question I honestly didn't know how to answer. Said professor told me that while this was a nice idea, it sounded like a lot of descriptive detail and telling what happened, and little else. So, if I travel down Memoir Boulevard, I have to develop some sort of storyline, to organize sixteen years worth of memoir in space and time, to make it relevant to someone besides me. Ummm....help?
I am standing at a fork in the road, trying to decide whether to take the path on the left, or the one on the right.
- Kelsey
Monday, September 7, 2009
On the 51.
I was on the 51 bus on the way to see my Mom at Bayside Rehab, and saw someone reading a skinny little play, one of those Samuel French's little booklet plays. Holy shit, it was my play.
( It was published and produced a year ago.)
Every time she looked away from the page, I took it personally. Why didn't it hold her attention? Every time she went back to the page, I relaxed. She kept doing this. Ohmigawd. She's memorizing it. She's an actor. I wept (discreetly) for joy. What an idiot.
To restore myself to sanity, I made myself think about Mom, how she's doing, planned how to feed her the strawberry smoothie when I get there, thought about her gnarled feet in her little grip-socks, and how she always wants to get out of her wheelchair because she doesn't know she can't stand up and you have to distract her. She likes to help...if she's convinced that sitting still is helpful, she'll usually sit still and forget about the belt.
(Is somebody putting my play on in the East Bay? Hey -- maybe I'll get a check! I should visit my PO Box more often...)
I saw someone I don't know memorizing their lines in a play I wrote. Someone I didn't know read something I wrote. Something I wrote is in French's, cheap and small enough to go anywhere...unbelievable - a local actor read it on the 51 to Alameda, read my f-ing play..holy shit.
It's kinda like I thought it would be. Publishing doesn't mean a car, a house, a chunk of change. It means that all through my daily doings, I can say to myself, "At least one of my play's is produced and published."
my bank account is overdrawn again. My ex's mother cuts her eyes at me. My mother couldn't swallow her smoothie today. The grocery laid off 3 people. I'm losing my place. The Shitty Committee wants me to think there's no point in writing, and maybe there isn't, but I saw someone on the 51 reading my play today, and I can't stop feeling good, like I can handle everything.
unbelievable.
I'm going dancing at El Valenciano tonight, this feels good.
Writer help --
Writer help:
I need technical help -- if something works ("works" defined as holds-
your-interest) why does it work, technically? If it doesn't work,
what piece of craftwork could mend it??
I'm embarrassed and frustrated by feedback offered without technical/
craft comments to back it up.
I'm trying to develop the habit of balanced self-editing, and
thoughtful peer feedback could go a long way toward developing that
habit as the semester grinds on...
I want to offer that to others as well, become good at seeing how
writing works, understand its effectiveness within its own terms and
genre, give useful feedback regardless of my emotional response to
the content, or literary/personal biases.
Problem of the semester:
How and when do I apply technical analysis to a piece developed from
intuition and imagery? How do I transform inchoate impulses into
tightly crafted and polished theater/literature?
I need technical help -- if something works ("works" defined as holds-
your-interest) why does it work, technically? If it doesn't work,
what piece of craftwork could mend it??
I'm embarrassed and frustrated by feedback offered without technical/
craft comments to back it up.
I'm trying to develop the habit of balanced self-editing, and
thoughtful peer feedback could go a long way toward developing that
habit as the semester grinds on...
I want to offer that to others as well, become good at seeing how
writing works, understand its effectiveness within its own terms and
genre, give useful feedback regardless of my emotional response to
the content, or literary/personal biases.
Problem of the semester:
How and when do I apply technical analysis to a piece developed from
intuition and imagery? How do I transform inchoate impulses into
tightly crafted and polished theater/literature?
Life After Publishing
It's been a year and a half since I finally finished my first novel, The Prince, and nine months two weeks and four days since I became "famous". Not famous like a movie star (I'm definitely no Angelina Jolie) but if you go to any Middle School and mention the words "Aiden Thomas", "Elementals" or "The Prince", 8.5 girls out of 10 will know exactly what you're talking about. Seriously, "Teen People" did a study on it.
I guess that's what happens when you get published by Hyperion, which is one of the publishing companies owned by Disney. As soon as they published my book, they advertised and talked about it everywhere possible. They were in stores at Disneyland and Disney World, articles were published about me and my novel in every teen magazine known to man and the last little nudge that turned my story into a full-blown sensation was an interview with Miley Cyrus and The Jonas Brothers on the Disney Channel. When asked what their favorite book was (since reading is "education and imagination"), all four went into a highly enthusiatic (and just as highly rehearsed) rant about how "awesome" my book was.
From there my world just exploded. Once Miley Cyrus and The Jonas Brothers think something is cool, then %85 of the world's tween population agree. Vehemently.
That's when I had to get three cell phones. One so that Disney representatives/my publisher could contact me whenever they wanted, one (my old phone) was now emptied of fan voice mails twice a day which usually consisted of high pitched squeals and little girls ranting about whether Orion or Asher were the true hunks of my story, and the last one I did my best to keep secret so that I could still get the twice-a-day phone calls from my parents. Whenever I could escape interviews and meetings, I did my best to still do the regular things in life. Disney Hyperion was already talking about making my novel into a cartoon series on Disney XD and later into a full length movie. Now, my job was to finish up my next 2 to 3 books in the series so they'd have a whole, epic storyline to play with (or exploit).
Before I had been published, I would go to Barnes and Noble by my job and look under the "If You Like Harry Potter, Then You'll Love These Books!" to find a new book for me to read. Now when a go to a book store, there's a whole wall of my novel with a section next to it titled "If You Like The Prince, Then You'll Love These Books!" that includes not only Harry Potter, but also Twilight and 7 or so other series. I still haven't decided what's more utterly offensive to me; the fact that some people consider my work to be anywhere near as great as Harry Potter or that I'm being compared to the likes of Stephanie Meyer. There's already full sized posters of the actors and actresses that will be playing my characters in the upcoming film, all of which are too old to be playing 17 year olds, have too perfect man dimples or sickeningly silky smooth hair. And they're all scheduled to appear at the next ComicCon.
I'm not trying to say that I'm ungrateful for everything Hyperion has accomplished for my little book. I mean, I had been planning on paying off my student loans for the rest of my life, but now they're all taken care of. But sometimes I feel a little uneasy and wonder if all of these young readers really appreciate my story and characters for what they are, or if it's simply because some teen idols said they were cool. I really wanted my story to mean more to kids and for them to connect with my stories on a personal level. I didn't necessarily plan on my readers to change their hair to look like Sasha and Mahti and wear t-shirts that says "Team Orion/Asher/Aidan" (but if you want one, they're by The Prince movie posters).
I guess that's what happens when you get published by Hyperion, which is one of the publishing companies owned by Disney. As soon as they published my book, they advertised and talked about it everywhere possible. They were in stores at Disneyland and Disney World, articles were published about me and my novel in every teen magazine known to man and the last little nudge that turned my story into a full-blown sensation was an interview with Miley Cyrus and The Jonas Brothers on the Disney Channel. When asked what their favorite book was (since reading is "education and imagination"), all four went into a highly enthusiatic (and just as highly rehearsed) rant about how "awesome" my book was.
From there my world just exploded. Once Miley Cyrus and The Jonas Brothers think something is cool, then %85 of the world's tween population agree. Vehemently.
That's when I had to get three cell phones. One so that Disney representatives/my publisher could contact me whenever they wanted, one (my old phone) was now emptied of fan voice mails twice a day which usually consisted of high pitched squeals and little girls ranting about whether Orion or Asher were the true hunks of my story, and the last one I did my best to keep secret so that I could still get the twice-a-day phone calls from my parents. Whenever I could escape interviews and meetings, I did my best to still do the regular things in life. Disney Hyperion was already talking about making my novel into a cartoon series on Disney XD and later into a full length movie. Now, my job was to finish up my next 2 to 3 books in the series so they'd have a whole, epic storyline to play with (or exploit).
Before I had been published, I would go to Barnes and Noble by my job and look under the "If You Like Harry Potter, Then You'll Love These Books!" to find a new book for me to read. Now when a go to a book store, there's a whole wall of my novel with a section next to it titled "If You Like The Prince, Then You'll Love These Books!" that includes not only Harry Potter, but also Twilight and 7 or so other series. I still haven't decided what's more utterly offensive to me; the fact that some people consider my work to be anywhere near as great as Harry Potter or that I'm being compared to the likes of Stephanie Meyer. There's already full sized posters of the actors and actresses that will be playing my characters in the upcoming film, all of which are too old to be playing 17 year olds, have too perfect man dimples or sickeningly silky smooth hair. And they're all scheduled to appear at the next ComicCon.
I'm not trying to say that I'm ungrateful for everything Hyperion has accomplished for my little book. I mean, I had been planning on paying off my student loans for the rest of my life, but now they're all taken care of. But sometimes I feel a little uneasy and wonder if all of these young readers really appreciate my story and characters for what they are, or if it's simply because some teen idols said they were cool. I really wanted my story to mean more to kids and for them to connect with my stories on a personal level. I didn't necessarily plan on my readers to change their hair to look like Sasha and Mahti and wear t-shirts that says "Team Orion/Asher/Aidan" (but if you want one, they're by The Prince movie posters).
the journey of my work
well I had a little divine help with this. when i was 16 I attempted suicide I took a bottle of valium and went to bed. I woke up pissed and went to party with friends. I was to sick to drink but the cop that caught us took me home after I cried and told him what i had done. the next night I went in my pink furry slippers and drove to drink a beer and look at the view from Glendale. the same cop pulled up behind me this time he took me to the station not because of the beer really he said the only way my dad would care was if he was inconvenienced. while I was there and asking god what to do I had a vision of being an artist in the bay area, I had a son, there were no paintings, so I guess I was a writer. at the time I had no thoughts of writing. (true story)
then I was pregnant my dad just died of alcoholism and I was pregnant and single. I went to a psychic because I had 50 $ and no idea how I was going to make it. I was thinking about buying a computer with my inheritance. I wanted to be a writer but I though a computer was extravagant. I got to ask the psychic one question. I asked if my son and I would be OK. She asked me what was wrong with me? Why did I look the way I did. She said I did theater and that I would be a writer and my son and I would travel. I bought a computer that day.
So my works journey well it began already by coming to Mills. My family was so freaked out about me writing memoir they all started popping up before I got here. My adoptive mom whom I have not spoken to for 23 years googled my writing and my graduation speech which said I hadn't been mothered until I met the professors at my community college. I don't expect my works journey to be smooth. I wonder if I will be able to tolerate the attention the, questioning, the law suits.
But as I have decided to do a one woman show based on my childhood the bad and the tiny moments of joy. I see it on stage it will start out small. It will be performed eventually at the Berkeley Rep. Where I saw the first play that changed my life. I won't tell my family but they will google me and they will know. They will come see it and if they can get through the brutal parts. I hope they will see the little girl they hurt and the big girl with an amazing capacity for compassion. I hope they will notice I didn't forget the Pinto or getting my bear after I threw it out if the car three times saying, " Teddy wanted to jump."
I f I can live long enough to get it out there I hope my work will change people, make it all worth it. Change me. I will go where it goes and my son will go with me and on the journey we will both be able to forgive our mother's and our father's and by then my son will be old enough to understand I haven't chosen writing over him. I have chosen writing so I might be capable of being worthy of him.
I will go on Oprah and pr my shit and I will still get pissed off when she cries and pretends to get me because we were both molested.
I will travel with my books and my shows and I will get enough money to buy the house that I saw in my vision when I was 16 and I will sit on the chair that can seat like 20 people that I call God's Chair in a field of flowers and look down at the water and sob. Not because my work made it or because it made money. But because I made it out alive or I found a way to choose to stay alive.
then I was pregnant my dad just died of alcoholism and I was pregnant and single. I went to a psychic because I had 50 $ and no idea how I was going to make it. I was thinking about buying a computer with my inheritance. I wanted to be a writer but I though a computer was extravagant. I got to ask the psychic one question. I asked if my son and I would be OK. She asked me what was wrong with me? Why did I look the way I did. She said I did theater and that I would be a writer and my son and I would travel. I bought a computer that day.
So my works journey well it began already by coming to Mills. My family was so freaked out about me writing memoir they all started popping up before I got here. My adoptive mom whom I have not spoken to for 23 years googled my writing and my graduation speech which said I hadn't been mothered until I met the professors at my community college. I don't expect my works journey to be smooth. I wonder if I will be able to tolerate the attention the, questioning, the law suits.
But as I have decided to do a one woman show based on my childhood the bad and the tiny moments of joy. I see it on stage it will start out small. It will be performed eventually at the Berkeley Rep. Where I saw the first play that changed my life. I won't tell my family but they will google me and they will know. They will come see it and if they can get through the brutal parts. I hope they will see the little girl they hurt and the big girl with an amazing capacity for compassion. I hope they will notice I didn't forget the Pinto or getting my bear after I threw it out if the car three times saying, " Teddy wanted to jump."
I f I can live long enough to get it out there I hope my work will change people, make it all worth it. Change me. I will go where it goes and my son will go with me and on the journey we will both be able to forgive our mother's and our father's and by then my son will be old enough to understand I haven't chosen writing over him. I have chosen writing so I might be capable of being worthy of him.
I will go on Oprah and pr my shit and I will still get pissed off when she cries and pretends to get me because we were both molested.
I will travel with my books and my shows and I will get enough money to buy the house that I saw in my vision when I was 16 and I will sit on the chair that can seat like 20 people that I call God's Chair in a field of flowers and look down at the water and sob. Not because my work made it or because it made money. But because I made it out alive or I found a way to choose to stay alive.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Journey after my novel.
It's been a year since my best selling novel took to the shelves of every bookstore, airport, bedroom, school campus and classroom. I'm sitting up late. All the lights are out and I"m mesmerized by the buzzing light of my computer. Like a fly I'm just a zombie to its' brightness. My email is open. I have other windows open as well.
I'm doing all I can to not open the emails from my grandmother title New York Times Review...Room runs out and it trails off. I can guess the rest, something alone the lines of it's a short but still impressive review hon. I'm sure the email runs somewhere along the lines of: I can't believe you've made it this far. Me and your grandfather are so proud of you. He showed it to all his coworkers at the art institute. How's the second one going? Love always. I look onto the next email title I'm so proud. My mother. I retreat to one of my other open windows: a movie.
It's over and I'm typing. Working on my second installation. Copying my written words from the tattered Composition Book to the hypnotizing computer. It's 2am. I decide to check my voice mails left from yesterday and the day before and a few days before those two days:
-Requests for public readings and signings
-My publisher crying about how I am punishing her with my self seclusion act.
-An older message from her jubilantly yelling of movie deals already being offered.
I make a mental note to call her after the sun fully rises; thought I know she's up just as I am. I'll apologize for what she calls my 'phase of a hermit lifestyle' as I review the movie deals as she runs them by me...Saying no to the first, claiming that the main character absolutely cannot be played by a white teeny bopper. I'll give her hope in saying that I'll consider the second and third offers. Secretly I feel the second one is peppy and then depressing at all the wrong times, but that's her favorite so I have to humor her. She hates the third choice. I know this but I simply love it. (I had hoped the director of my dreams would beg for the script. After months of waiting and a few pints of Haagen Daz coffee ice cream I got over that rejection. Many people had thought I was recently dumped.) However, this third choice seems so close to my dream that I'll end up settling for it.
My publisher will cry (she always does), claiming that I had made such a dent in history with the numbers I had made on the book that it would be a waste if the movie sales didn't add up to them. After a meeting with director, we come to an agreement of me having the end say on all accounts of the end product of my film. In the end, I'm still not satisfied, though my publisher loves it. In a few years I'll rewrite it and republish it (with my same publisher). I'll demand all old copies to be removed from the shelves and destroyed. Only copies that had already been bought will remain in existence.
-Alana G. G-B
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