The Dreaded Sensible Limit

Every single thing I can think to write sounds like whining. And nobody wants to read whining any more than they want to hear whining.

Still, I feel compelled to say I’m not visiting other blogs these days and I’ve barely written anything in the last few weeks.

Adding two classes to my schedule may not have been the best decision, but the bills will be paid, and that is always a good thing. I don’t want to be yet another wannabe writer waylaid by bills, housework, and, you know, everything else, but…nobody gets to swim against the tide forever.

Of course, maybe the tide is just a bad mood. Maybe a good mood will come in and lift all spirits.

The condition of our apartment is driving me crazy. The dust, the clutter, the endless chores, the small garden I let die, the messages I haven’t responded to… And two weeks into the semester and I’m behind on prepping for classes and for grading student work… At least I’m keeping up with the kid. For the most part. I set up an Etsy shop–haven’t made much of anything lately though. Supposed to have a show in January…no clue what to do for that.

But I’m whining even though I don’t want to. So. I’m going to get some sleep like a sensible person, and maybe dream like a sensible person too.

The Dreaded “A” Question

I hate the “A” question.

So, I read a blog post by my friend JES regarding the “A” word–as in What is your novel About?

An agent is currently looking at my first novel, and this “A” question is on my mind. My first novel is about a difficult subject…a conversation stopper subject.

Now let’s be clear. I didn’t begin the novel intending to write about dark and difficult things. I started writing about marbles.

I was with my writing group (which is now no more) and the writing prompt pulled out of the box was “marbles.” Okay. Well, I didn’t want to write about a game of marbles because that seemed too obvious and I don’t know anything about the game. The sound of marbles hitting a hard floor came to mind. This became the sound of marbles hitting wooden stairs.

Why would marbles be spilling down the stairs? Someone dumped them on the stairs. Hmm. Who? A girl. She comes to mind. She stands at the top of the stairs pouring marbles out of a blue jar.

Why would she do this? It would make a mess. Marbles would probably be lost. So they must not be her marbles.

So again–why would she do it? Oh, they are her brother’s marbles and she is angry at him. She wants him to know she is angry.

Why is she angry? He has done something wrong.

And he sees his marbles falling down the stairs, go in different directions, and he yells at her. He chases her. I see them in my mind and she is about 16 and he is about 5 years older…still living at home.

Because he can’t hold a job.

Because he’s an addict.

Because he does terrible things.

And he chases his sister into her room where she hides. He finds her, but she pulls out a knife she keeps hidden her boot to protect herself.

Why would she need a knife?

Because he is violent obviously.

What violent things has he done?

And before you know it (if ten years count as a before-you-know-it explanation), I’ve written a novel with drug addiction, incest, rape, and prostitution. (First chapter here.)

Hmm. What is your novel about?

Ummm…?

Well, the novel does have a reasonably happy ending. Does that help?

Usually when people ask the “A” question, I say something vague, “It’s about loyalty and friendship in difficult times.” Yes. I’m a chicken.

I have had a few agents reject the novel because of its subject matter. Which surprised me a bit because these are not new issues for fiction. Maybe if the novel were about a detective hunting down a serial rapist murderer instead.

Anyway, I don’t think of my novel as being about those dark subjects. Crazy as it sounds, i think of it as a novel about friendship–two girls saving their friendship.

All right. So I guess if I struggled to be honest about what my first novel is about, I’d have to say that it is about a girl whose brother raped her best friend, and perhaps it was a secret the girl had kept hidden from her best friend and everyone that allowed the rape to occur.

There. Said it.

Reading posts like this about women writers doesn’t make answering the “A” question any easier.

What is your novel about? Marbles.