Those Who Can't, Criticize
The remainder of last night went beautifully. I'm a very lucky man. A little dinner, a little wine, a little conversation. I couldn't ask for more.
Today's writing went very well. The words came lightning quick (perhaps stored up from yesterday, when I had to drag them out kicking and screaming) and with great character. It seems whenever I put Brendan and Chapman together, everything just fits. They're dialogue between one another is fresh and real; a sweet sensation.
From time to time I find a few critics (I name them so because I know that is what they aspire to be) pop up and excuse themselves of good character by denouncing another. Over the years I've been privy to a great many criticisms, it comes with the territory. The one thing I've learned however, is those who provide true criticism are of a class of artist that wishes you success; all the greatness they themselves have reached, or more correctly, attempt to reach, since no true artist believes he has arrived at greatness. These people achieve nothing by cutting into your character. Instead, they attempt to show you how you might reach a better result in your dialogue or character building, how you might in fact make a "better" book. There is of course another type of passing critic. This person (who more often than not hides behind the veil of anonymousness (yes, that's a word :))) defines himself as a brash know-it-all who feels compelled to detract from another, that which he is too terrified to do himself. Strange, isn't it? They claim to know the world of writing, though you never see their books in print. More often than not, they are pounding away on the same manuscript for twenty years, attempting to define the perfect prose for their Great American Novel. A manuscript that some relative will find in the bottom of some junk chest, sealed away in the attic long after the writer's demise. Or better yet, it will be a collection of rank and sterile poetry that was simply "too beautiful" to be released to the world, as the people could never understand the angst of its author.
I have an understanding of people that I like to share. You see, in this world, the exclusively rich folk are by and large very kind and understanding people. The middle managers of the world, those that only aspire to that kind of wealth are the true pricks. They're the ones ordering the expensive champaigne and refuse to travel anywhere if a limo is not provided. In the art of writing, it is much the same way, I'm afraid. The true authors, people who work they're asses off writing and preparing their work for release are the kindest, warmest and most regarding people. The ones who only play at it, the one's who ego cannot survive the cold, harsh cruelty of their peers and thus,never produce a publishable manuscript, are the true pricks.
Either way, I know who I am. I don't fluff the words of this journal and I'm at least honest to myself. I post my word count because I've set forth a goal of 1,000 words a day for the first draft (also considered the "rough" draft) and because certain people I know (other inspiring authors some of them) like to see the manuscript grow. The quality of the words I write is up to my fans to denote, and it is they I trust and believe in. Enough said.
I'm off to eat dinner (a terrific looking stew that's been in the crock pot all day) and to hang out with my lady.
Chapter Thirteen - "Bomber"
For a switch, Brendan is visiting Chapman in the hospital ... but of course you'll have to wait to read the book to find out why he's there. ;)
Today's Word Count: 1,019
Page Count: 243
Total Word Count: 53,190
Today's writing went very well. The words came lightning quick (perhaps stored up from yesterday, when I had to drag them out kicking and screaming) and with great character. It seems whenever I put Brendan and Chapman together, everything just fits. They're dialogue between one another is fresh and real; a sweet sensation.
From time to time I find a few critics (I name them so because I know that is what they aspire to be) pop up and excuse themselves of good character by denouncing another. Over the years I've been privy to a great many criticisms, it comes with the territory. The one thing I've learned however, is those who provide true criticism are of a class of artist that wishes you success; all the greatness they themselves have reached, or more correctly, attempt to reach, since no true artist believes he has arrived at greatness. These people achieve nothing by cutting into your character. Instead, they attempt to show you how you might reach a better result in your dialogue or character building, how you might in fact make a "better" book. There is of course another type of passing critic. This person (who more often than not hides behind the veil of anonymousness (yes, that's a word :))) defines himself as a brash know-it-all who feels compelled to detract from another, that which he is too terrified to do himself. Strange, isn't it? They claim to know the world of writing, though you never see their books in print. More often than not, they are pounding away on the same manuscript for twenty years, attempting to define the perfect prose for their Great American Novel. A manuscript that some relative will find in the bottom of some junk chest, sealed away in the attic long after the writer's demise. Or better yet, it will be a collection of rank and sterile poetry that was simply "too beautiful" to be released to the world, as the people could never understand the angst of its author.
I have an understanding of people that I like to share. You see, in this world, the exclusively rich folk are by and large very kind and understanding people. The middle managers of the world, those that only aspire to that kind of wealth are the true pricks. They're the ones ordering the expensive champaigne and refuse to travel anywhere if a limo is not provided. In the art of writing, it is much the same way, I'm afraid. The true authors, people who work they're asses off writing and preparing their work for release are the kindest, warmest and most regarding people. The ones who only play at it, the one's who ego cannot survive the cold, harsh cruelty of their peers and thus,never produce a publishable manuscript, are the true pricks.
Either way, I know who I am. I don't fluff the words of this journal and I'm at least honest to myself. I post my word count because I've set forth a goal of 1,000 words a day for the first draft (also considered the "rough" draft) and because certain people I know (other inspiring authors some of them) like to see the manuscript grow. The quality of the words I write is up to my fans to denote, and it is they I trust and believe in. Enough said.
I'm off to eat dinner (a terrific looking stew that's been in the crock pot all day) and to hang out with my lady.
Chapter Thirteen - "Bomber"
For a switch, Brendan is visiting Chapman in the hospital ... but of course you'll have to wait to read the book to find out why he's there. ;)
Today's Word Count: 1,019
Page Count: 243
Total Word Count: 53,190
posted by Stefan & Holly | 5:33 PM
4 Comments:
There are people wandering about, reading and commenting on blogs and actually thinking that while doing so that the rest of us grant them any credibilty. Those people are the folks I would love to lock up and abuse on a daily basis. That's all fukkers.
They claim to know the world of writing, though you never see their books in print. More often than not, they are pounding away on the same manuscript for twenty years, attempting to define the perfect prose for their Great American Novel. A manuscript that some relative will find in the bottom of some junk chest, sealed away in the attic long after the writer's demise.
Strange, isn't it? ... Sounds like you are describing yourself buddy. All I can find on you on the Web is references to a few "Vanity Press" publications.
Your prose (I hate even referring to your dribble as prose) gives us all a insight to how successful you really are.
Strange, isn't it? ... Sounds like you are describing yourself buddy. All I can find on you on the Web is references to a few "Vanity Press" publications.
Your prose (I hate even referring to your dribble as prose) gives us all a insight to how successful you really are.
Yeah, strange it is. But not quite as strange as the rantings of the critical, always posting as anonymous. But I'll take heart knowing that this stellar criticism comes from some name that I'm sure is riding the Bestseller Chart. Chucklehead.
A writer be me ... not I! Perhaps someone thou has mistaken me for such. Who be I but the wind, oh you, who tries to be tender to those he whoes, but hides behind lies as thoughtless as the whore beckoning me near. Be careful what lingers in the wind, precious writer! Forget not these words I say lest you become a bigger fool!
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