Anyone watch Castle yesterday? If not, you're missing out- hardcore.
*Spoiler Alert*
First of all, let me say that I love Castle. Second, let me say I love Castle. Third, I love Castle. If I could write a TV series, I would hope that it would be Castle-esqe. Not Bones, not Criminal Minds, nor CSI, not even House (alright, maybe House) but Castle. I love that the writers play with the nature of story-telling, plot, and narrative within every episode. Every episode, Castle suggests the "story" behind the murder... usually it's wrong, but he suggests a story that "fits" the crime.
I love that interplay, but it's too complicated in my head to explain it all. So back to my main point.
This weekend I bought Heat Wave. Sound familiar? It should- it's the book Rick Castle "wrote" about Detective Beckett/Nikki Heat in the TV series. ABC has published the (fictional) book that the (fictional) character (fictionally) wrote. But it's a real book, that was truly written, that was truly published and released in September, that I trully read over the weekend, that was even ranked #4 (!!!!) for Barnes and Nobles. Is anyone else spinning from that layering?
I love it. I think the advertising guy who came up with this scheme is truly diabolical. What better way to draw attention to the show? Readers pick it up, and go to find the show. Followers of the series buy the book, because they just have to see if the writing is that good (it wasn't, but I'll come back to that later). And all around, there is creation of a fictional world that translates into reality through the purchase of this book, like some of the Harry Potter or LOTR memorablia. It's material goods from a fictional world made into reality, which makes those goods not fictional, but suddenly real... And the fact that the author bio is about fictional character Rick Castle? The author photo is of actor Nathan Fillion? and the author reviews by real authors refer to the previous Derek Storm series (which are truly fictional, as in ABC hasn't published them) and the famous author Rick Castle and his publishing career as all absolutely established historical realities? Oh, yeah. Twisted.
Anyways, the writing wasn't that great. It was obviously a rush job, and the ghostwriter either was 1) a TV series writer, who couldn't quite make the jump to the novel form, or 2) some other writer who hadn't mastered some of the basics. There were many redeemable one-liners, which is why I suspect that a series writer switched to the novel format (they were classic and characteristic for the show), but many technical aspects that were just... mangled. We get an in-depth flash-back on Nikki Heat's mother's murder within the first ten pages, and POV jumps around sporadically, even within the same sentence. Third person POV is still usually limited to the perspective of one single character, or no characters at all. Check your vocabulary, my children, that why dictionaries were created (Thank you, Samuel Johnson, even if you never claimed credit.) And the plot followed along the plot of the show- clownish but intelligent crime journalist tags along with long suffering attractive detective- which would have been fine, except I expected Castle's book to be a little more removed from the show. (Lookit me. I imagined what the ficitonal book of fictional author Rick Castle would be, and when said fictional book was then published, it wasn't what I imagined it to be. Oy vei.)
What surprised me was the inclusion of romance and a sex scene. Yes, sex is now "mainstream," but the show is not heavily romantic, in the same sense that Bones is not heavily romantic. There's flirting, and a few mushy scenes, but the show's popularity is based on the eternal question "When are they going to get together?" If that question is answered, there is no longer a show. When the rumor about Bones and Booth finally getting together went around last season, I was disappointed, because there was no more appeal in watching the show. There would be messy break-ups, and reunions, and dating other people, and jealously, and it would descend into nothing more than a soap opera. Same with Castle. If they ever do actually act on the romantic feelings so carefully controlled, I won't watch it anymore.
Ranting, sorry. Anyways, point is, I got my answer tonight. The latest episode revolves around Heat Wave- yes, the one published. It revolves around the actual plot line of the book, and I think I benefited from having read the book before I watched last night's episode, although it's not necessary in any way. The show was great- Beckett teasing Castle about not reading the book, and secondary characters mentioning the sex scene and Castle teasing Beckett about that... it was really great.
So in summary! The book was ok, but I'm glad I bought it, for the sheer whimsical value and for the connection to the latest episode. I also think it was a FANTASTIC marketing/advertising scheme, and including the book in the plot was diabolical. So I forgive the ghostwriter for the results- it was more important to get the book out before the season progressed too far.
I just wish someone had copy-edited better.
Right Now:
What I'm listening to: "Nothing" by Red Friday (free download of cd here!)
What I want most: more Fall break! (school starts tomorrow, boo)
No, seriously. I don't know what the admissions board was thinking. I think they either were going to lunch, or coming back, and just wanted to get out of there.
What I'm taking about is my supplemental piece. For us artsy folks, they allow an additional submission of creative writing/video/music sample, acting sample, etc. And I sent one in. I happened to stumble across both the original, and my later rewrite. The original I went for humor. I failed. In the rewrite I went for high literature. I failed. And the thoughts that I express... are horrible, cliche, and uncomplimentary to my own profession. I am traumatized. I am amused. I don't know what to do with myself, so therefore I am posting both versions here.
At least I recognize my "style" or "voice." Apparently, I had it even way back then. I have a tendency to include subclauses- a lot. I use dashes- a lot. I indicate multiple thoughts by using "that"- a lot. And I do this all still today. I also have a structure in which I like to use the body of a paragraph as one point, then add a single sentence separated from the main text that completely contradicts or twists the original idea. And I do this all the time now.
I also realize that I was trying to go for a creative non-fiction piece. Or would have, if I even knew what creative non-fiction was back then. But I also use writer's block as a vehicle to get over my writer's block. Ugh. Just ugh.
So, I would say enjoy, but..... Yeah.
WARNING: This piece is mildly offensive. Please forgive me. I was ignorant and didn't know any better. I don't write like this anymore.
***
There is something about a blank white piece of piece of paper. It has a space, an emptiness, that demands to be filled, and yet possesses a very lethal danger to all who would seek to mar its creamy perfection.
It's called writer's block.
My pencil thumped rapidly against the stack of notebook paper, its rubber eraser bouncing a little higher each time. I slowed the tapping, moving so that each hit would trace the lines on the paper. Down the red line, across each green line that spanned the vast canyon that was my masterpiece.
Or would be, if I had anything to write.
In my experience, writer's block hits at either one of two places. The first, where most writers and all good storytellers start- at the beginning. It's the bone-crushing despair that stops you from ever touching pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, if you're one of those types, but I prefer to take my chances having writer's block with an inanimate object than having a disapproving cursor blinking back at me.) The second place writer's block can hit is about 1/3 of the way down a page, where you are so thankful that divine inspiration has given you an idea that you surge to reach for that pencil, only to find that the idea peters out after four sentences.
Writing can be a shitty business. And I'm such a lucky girl to enter into said shitty business.
Because honestly, a writer cant declare herself to be anything other than she is. It's like toast trying to pass herself off as French bread. You're still toast, burned edges and all.
Believe me, I've tried. 15 years of trying, in fact. One of the first things I remember is my dad saying that I should be a writer. I brushed off each and every suggestion like that, thinking I wanted to do something worthwhile in life, like dig in the mud and discover buried treasure (I wanted to become an archaeologist.)
How ironic then, that I've come full circle, and traded one obscure profession for another.
Of course, writing is a worthwhile occupation- it keeps all the lunatics off the street and locked away in their houses trying to write the great American novel.
It saves on construction for mental hospitals too.
Alright, all writers aren't crazy, but admittedly we are a rare bunch. Everyone in the world might be trying to write the aforementioned great American novel, so much that it's passed into the realm of cliche, but I think authors, as opposed to writers, have something special (and yes, there is a difference: writers are those still dreaming of the great American novel, a sort of croissant and mimosa type; author's are those who've decided it's time to be toast.)
I read once that authors are like vacuums, who suck up other people's lives, then weave them into stories like sparrows building nests.
This vacuum likes being toast, even with writer's block and burnt edges.
***
The Rewrite
(This one is only slightly better. I am proud of my editing skills though.)
There is a very lethal danger, though often forgotten, in the expanse and emptiness of a blank white piece of paper. Space stretches out unchecked from corner to corner, down each side of the page, traversed only by a few brave lines, establishing a thin, tentative sort of order in that expanse of uncharted territory. And to those that seek to mar its creamy unblemished perfection, it issues a mute challenge, a warning, a curse.
It’s called writer’s block.
My pencil is often rendered useless by this most dreaded of circumstances. Frustrated by lack of progress and thwarted by a force greater than it’s own, my pencil seeks refuge in useless action. It thumped rapidly against the stacj of notebook paper, its rubber end bouncing a little higher each time. I slowed the tapping, moving so that each downward hit would trace across the green lines. Lines that spanned the vast canyon that was my masterpiece.
Or would be, if I had anything to write.
In my experience, writer’s block strikes at either one of two places; at the beginning, where all good story-tellers and most decent authors start, or about one-third of the way down the page, after a few hope-filled sentences burst forth. It’s either the bone-crushing despair that prevents pencil from touching paper in the first place, or the insidious creeping despair fom that contrast between divine inspiration and the eventual stuttering end of divine inspiration.
Writing can be a truly shitty business. Wordless, mocking challenges, disapproving, blinking cursors. the failure to conquoer the blank page or screen. Soul-searing, scarring failures, remembered and pondered over and prodded at by some inherent masochistic desire to delve right back into the pain-filled heart of writing.
And I would never want to do anything else. There can never be anything else.
A writer cannot be happy passing herself off as anything else. It is not a career, it is a character trait, as genetically determined as hair color or eye color or race. You may dye your hair, but each month the roots grow out and you are once again reminded of the truth of identity. The same for toast, trying to masquerade as the finest French bagette. Both are crunchy, slightly tough, sometimes stale. But in the end, the burnt taste always give it away, no how much scraping and trimmed edges and cursing occurs.
Not that many writers don’t try. I tried. Years of trying. 15 years worth of trying to avoid the person I really am. Over a decade’s worth of fighting and avoidance, and to some degree, I am still fighting that siren’s call. Avoiding failure by not writing. Avoiding writing’s block by not writing. Avoiding a burning, tireless obsession by not writing. Avoiding anything, everything, whatever I fear by not writing at all. I think that to some degree, I will always be fighting. This too is a part of writing: destructive, vindictive, integral, necessary, accepted.
It could be argued that the only benefit of writing is that it keeps the crazies off the streets- and what writer is not a little bit crazy for pursuing heart-ache so willingly?-and squirreled away in little garret rooms writing the next great American novel.
(And here thankfully I stopped.)
Right Now:
What I'm listening to: "Runaway" by Mae
What I want most: to take back this piece. Definitely.
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