art for cash
When is art worth money? What makes a doodle worth framing and selling? I have no clue–at least when it comes to my own work. And of course how much is art worth?
I can’t even answer these questions about my “real” work. I can’t even tell a student how much I get paid for tutoring without turning red and stumbling for words–as if I’m somehow bad for even asking to be paid.
So, I’m supposed to plan for this art show next summer and I can’t imagine deciding on a price for a picture.
It’s about effing time
It’s about effing time for Paul to get married. I’ve put him through enough and he’s had enough sense to ask out a normal person for once in his life and he’s pushing forty, so he deserves some peace and happiness…but this real time blog thing drives me crazy. He and are I going to have to wait for the right time for him to ask the questions (and when will that be?) and then real-time plan a wedding…and hope that in the meantime I don’t change my mind and screw up his life.
Hey, that almost makes it sound like he and I are getting married–ha-ha. Well, I do love my characters!
The Red Moon
The Red Moon, for better or for worse, is a brothel on the outskirts of Lake Belle. One way or another it shows up in every story. The trick is (no pun intended–really) is to write about a call girl without resorting to cliche. No hearts of gold and no glamorizing the trade.
What on earth do I know about prostitution anyway?
In my hometown in Central Florida, out on the highway on the way to the flea market, was a house set way off the road alone surrounded by unmowed grass and pine trees. A large sign in the shape of a palm stood near the road and advertised the types of fortunes told–palm readings, Tarot cards, and such. My mother told me the place was for prostitution. She said this without any note of condemnation or horror or pity. She said it just as a fact she thought I should know. I think was eleven or maybe twelve. Naturally, I was fascinated, especially since I wasn’t entirely clear on what the word prostitution meant. I could’ve asked my mom, but at the time I didn’t appreciate her blunt and straightforward answers, so I often avoided asking her important questions. I said something like, “Huh” in what I thought was a sophisticated and knowing tone.
Having never learned the truth about the place–who was ever going to take me?–it’s followed me into my fiction.
And Paul, Linnie, and Mercie all have some connection to the place…but they don’t talk about it much.
Over-caffeinated and Exposed
Way too much coffee. I think I could drive home without turning on the car. And sharing my novel with someone who’s never read my work before is a bit like drinking a vat of coffee for the way it makes my nerves rattle. Where does rampant insecurity spring anway? Some evil teacher? Judgmental parents? I didn’t have those. Okay, maybe an evil professor. But why do some of us feel this gut splitting, heart rending fear? I’ve face real physical danger before with less terror.
What I need is a big glass of wine. Or whiskey.
The Sunlight
The Sunlight Grocery used to be called The Sun Stop until its sudden and strange transformation several years ago. The characters involved in that have moved on, and the store isn’t as perfect as it once was, but much of the neighborhood around it has gentrified to some extent. Lake Belle is far from an up and coming town, although some areas are charming and even respectable.
The woman who owns the place, Lorraine Pack, doesn’t come into the store. Her husband choked to death on a grape in the produce section, but since no one liked Orlis Pack, no one bothers to mention it. As long as The Sunlight makes money Lorraine doesn’t care what else goes on there; most of the employees have never seen her and never will. More employees work at the store than post, but most of them don’t care about the internet beyond checking email or shopping.
The Sunlight Grocery is on the corner of Harper Avenue and Hill Road, and everyone in Lake Belle ends up stopping in there at least once. Sometimes when they do, they buy a little something and leave. Other times there’s a story.
Change of Pace
This blog really should support the lakebelle blog. At first, being new to this whole blogosphere, I thought of writing about the writing life, but that’s not enough (for me anyway and I’m the blogger, so there you are). I’m going to try using this space to better describe lake belle and the people there. The point of this whole endeavor is to practice writing, find a voice, and make the fictional world real. We’ll see how it goes.
Wonderfully Lunatic Agents…Do Exist (I’ve got proof in my hot little hand)
So, I’m reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke and I keep finding these clever lines and pitch-perfect descriptions–writing that makes me jealous (Oh, why didn’t I write that?). But here’s the thing–the book 846 pages long (I’m on page 225 at the moment) and I’m thinking this: an agent was sitting in his office and he received this query letter and he looked at the page count and he said, “Oh, sure. I can sell that! It’s style is rahter Dickensian and it’s illustrated and it’s protagonist is a bit of a pill and some of the words are mispelled on purpose, but hey, there’s a market for that.” uh-huh. And this is Ms. Clarke’s FIRST novel.
Everything I’ve read about finding an agent and a publisher would say this can’t be done. You can’t be a first time novelist with a book that long and expect anybody to give you the time of day. Too many other less risky books to put money into. Really, the only explanation is that her agent was insane.
Thank god, because it’s a worthwhile book. But still…makes my small-minded side wonder who Ms. Clarke’s friends are just because many fantastic books never see the light day. Ever looked at the numbers? The odds? I might as well put all my money (which is hardly much of a bet) on being struck by lightening while getting run over by the proverbial bus of death when I walk out the door tomorrow morning. It helps to know people (other than Zeus and grim bus drivers).
In the movie Sideways, Miles’s agent goes on about finding a place for his novel, not knowing how to market it, blah, blah, blah, and really, I had to figure from every cliche she said that Mile’s book just wasn’t good. Maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe most books really aren’t good enough…including mine. Well, there’s always the next book and some wonderfully lunatic agent hyped up on caffeine going through those query letters looking for a dare…846 pages indeed–who does she think she is? A successful published writer–that’s who.
Edit or Die Trying (or is it edit ’til you die?)
You can’t be a writer unless you’re willing to hack it to bits and mow down those darlings as they run for cover. Okay, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic, but writing is an ugly business even if you never resort to using blood instead of ink. Editing exhausts me. Not in the way toiling away in a field exhausts a person, no. I’m not likely to have heat stroke at my computer. In many ways writing is paradoxically cushy–a/c, coffee, indoor toilet, all that stuff. But deciding the fate of nonexistent people is weirdly taxing. Oh, woe is me. Well, what might really be taxing is listening to a whining writer…wait, what is it you do all day?
Oh, and did I edit this post for errors? Nope. ha-ha-ha–take that spell check!
money makes the world go ’round & the pen move with more ease
There’s nothing romantic about money. Starving artists in garretts are not cooler or more authentic than artists in air conditioned studios. And so this month when I am without any classes and therefore without a paycheck for three weeks, I am with a wonderful amount of time with which to write and create–hours at a time! Joy! Right? Except I start to worry about the money and how all this so-called creativity is making me no money whatsoever and my thoughts freeze and I start to wonder what I really should be doing.
Oh, for the days of the patrons! When I was younger and single, perhaps I fantasized about the knight in shining armor (too many fairy tales!). Now I fantasize about the knight (really, any courtly figure will do) with shining credit cards. Shame! Bad artist. Bad writer. Get a real job.
Torn Between
I’ve never been someone searching for what to do with my life. I’ve never had a radical transformation from one religion to another, one political belief to another, one way of living to another. I declared my college major at seventeen and never considered changing it. Plenty of my friends wonder what they should be doing, what their dream is, where they’re going, what they believe. I support them in the search though I’ve never truly understood their quest.
But if their is one question I struggle with it isn’t about god or marriage or kids or whatever–it’s whether to pursue art or writing. Mostly I’ve chosen writing. But I want both. And my certainty that I have to have at least one in my life hasn’t given the confidence that I’m good at either.
