Oscars For Novelists?

 

Michael and I have seen more than our share of movies this year on the big screen so I’m paying closer attention to the Oscars than usual. But it got me to thinking, why isn’t there an award show for writers? Just for writers.

As a writer, do I dare approach that question without sounding childish?

I can’t help it though. Think about it.

What books or stories have you read recently, or years ago, that you remember vividly? What characters still linger and come to your mind at the strangest times?

What novel, if any, has had the capacity to haunt you for days, weeks, and years?

What author consistently moves you like few others?

What in their voice gives them the edge?

What common thread weaves their unforgettable stories to the cloak of your memory?

And what happens when that book is made into a movie? Are you one of the many who say, "... yeah, but the book was better."

The majority of movies produced are a direct result of the novel. Though some films are retitled, many producers use the book's title. I remember watching old news footage of Margaret Mitchell appearing at the Oscars—a moment of inspiration from my youth. But since, I can’t recall a novelist at the Oscars. I think if they go, they’re seated way in the back somewhere. Perhaps I’m wrong. I hope that I am.

Still, I don’t remember J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, Pat Conroy, or even Jodi Picoult appearing at an awards show. When the cast of The Help walked the Red Carpet last year, was Kathryn Stockett among them? Does anyone know?

Sometimes an actor, when making an acceptance speech, will acknowledge the author. I recall Queen Latifah thanking Sue Monk Kidd for writing The Secret Life of Bees. Quite possibly I’m wrong to think the author should have anything to do with the film once the story is in the hands of Steven Spielberg. Maybe that's awards enough. But when a book is optioned and the rights sold, should the author disappear into oblivion? If not for the book … would the academy-award winning film have been made?

Writers who give breath and blood to create, publish, and promote are not guaranteed success to any degree. No more than any other artist. But if their novel is lucky enough to have made it to the big time--developed into a hugely successful film and recognized by the The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the Oscars, should there not be something more than a nod to the author?

Just sayin’.

Blessings to you and yours.

I WRITE

 

In Kathryn Stockett's novel, The Help, when Stuart asks Skeeter, "What do you do with your time?" she answers emphatically, "I write."

I wonder what went through Kathryn's mind when she wrote those two words. I write.

It's the second day of the new year, and yesterday on the first day of the new year, I pulled the covers over my head and screamed ... "NO MORE! I'M SICK OF IT. I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE!!!"

Can we get real, here? Can we stop with the cutesy blogs and read something real? Can I write my heart this morning without backlash? Without somebody thinking I'm wallering in self-pity? Because I really just want to write what I'm feeling today, without pretense. Without agenda. Without that forced smile we all know so well.

Time to hash out a few words and see if anybody out there ... relates.

Every day I read all the wonderful blogs by other writers. Encouragement abounds. Positive messages and quotes and anecdotes fill the Internet. Every time I open my email, it's overflowing with writers, editors, bloggers, literary agents ... some folks I know, others I don't ... all telling me what to do and what not to do to be successful in the new year. It makes me wonder. How many of them have given up at some point. Just chucked in the towel and said ... enough. Enough of this bullshit.

The market is over-saturated. It reminds me of Noah and the ark. Only a select few are hand-picked by the "publishing gods" to travel on the ark, while the rest of us tread water, pound on the doors, and scream to be heard.

Now ... God knows ... I'm grateful. For every positive review of Televenge. For every letter of love and support. There have been many. I'm thankful for those who have expressed encouragement on my behalf and continue to do so. I'm not talking about that. That's not what this post is about. But the journey with Televenge as my debut novel has also taught me a few new things about the industry. The biggest is that although I've been a writer since I was a bitty girl, a full-time writer since 2003, the struggle is FAR from over.

In fact, I feel as if I've bounced along this pioneer trail on a wagon train heading west for over a decade. I've nearly drowned crossing the Mississippi, manuevered through a few prarie fires, and fought off one too many Pawnee with only a double-barrel and a fast horse. And now ... I'M STANDING AT THE BASE OF THE DAMN ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

I thought, at least, I would get a glimpse of home. How the hell do I get over this mountain?

It's enough to send a body under the covers.

Through all the unfairness within this industry, it doesn't matter. Not anymore. There's plenty of broken dreams out there. An abundance of struggling writers pounding on the ark. What is it that will set some of us apart? The story of a lifetime? The perfect editor/agent/publisher/book deal/book tour? Thousands of Facebook friends and Twitter followers? When the moon/stars/plants all line up?

None of the above.

The answer is simple. To get out of bed every morning, and write. To not think about the outcome or the awards or those who have let you down. The answer is to put social media on the back seat of the bus, and your butt in the driver seat. To do the one thing God has called you to do.

I'm a writer. It's what I do. The unvarnished truth is after all the new year resolutions are made and broken, after all the glass half-fulls are put to bed, I'm still wagon-training.

This morning I woke up and realized ... I can't go back. I've come too far. What is it that makes me get out of bed? What is it?

I write.

It's just that simple.

Blessings to you and yours.

Why It's Hard For An Author To Give An Honest Book Review

 



I don't give book reviews unless it's a four or five-star review. I don't even like to give four-star reviews. For obvious reasons.

As an author myself, to give anything less than a great review is ludicrous. I mean, who the hell do I think I am?  ...

But c'mon ... writers are constantly reading. When we aren't writing, we're reading. And lately, I've read some pretty awful stuff. But can I say what? Of course not. I'm not that stupid.

You can be sure when I review a book, it's because it's fabulous. In my review, I'm sincere, meaning every word.

I love a great read, stuff you haven't seen before, the kind of book that roots in my soul, creating great vines of tangled prose I will never escape from. Godamighty, it's the stuff legends are made of ... great stories to soothe the mind of the tormented and stir the rage of the stoic. There's nothing better than a life-changing story. I've read a few in my life that remain close to me to this day.

But back to the "terrible-awful". (Love those words from Kathryn Stockett's novel, The Help) ... I recently spent a couple days with my nose in a novel that was heralded as one of the top five of 2012. And I'm not talking about 50 Shades of Gray. That's the one exception I made earlier this year, and I won't waste another breath on it. The novel I'm talking about was recommended to me by numerous friends and so, I bought it and could not for the life of me, get through the first 100 pages. I gave it 100 pages and stopped. Ugh. I was so disappointed and figured it's just me. Me. Everybody loves this. There's something wrong with me.

So I read ten more pages, stopped, took out my book marker, and put it back on my shelf. I wish I could say why I didn't like it, but it would give it away ... so I'll just leave it at that.

Writers, authors -  we cannot give honest book reviews. Not of the books we don't like. It's makes us look haughty. Prideful. Like a Kardashian at a country club. Nose in the air know-it-all.

And I'm not so ignorant to think everyone will love everything I write. That's the beauty of books. There's something for everybody.

As an author, it's just not a good idea to be anything other than humble. If I don't have something nice to say about another author's work, I don't say anything at all. Raised by a southern mother, it was the code she lived by. A code I've passed down to my own daughter.

If I'm asked to critique a manuscript, that's between me and the writer ... but once the book is published, then as an author myself, it's best left to the readers to judge. Not me. I live in a glass house. I never throw stones.

Blessings to you and yours.