Careful with the Cringe

Current 'panther' friend

Three stories. First, the everything-but-dinosaurs-and-aliens story. It had it all: a castle, a princess fighting to save the kingdom, pirates, and a black Jaguar named Scott. Oh, and sword fights. Did I mention the sword fights? Lots of sword fights. I don't know that it had terrific narrative flow. Or even a plot. But I was 12. So that book covered ALL the cringe. That young Princess was a fencing prodigy, a horseback riding prodigy, and the black Jaguar was, naturally, her best friend. Of course, her father's Kingdom is under threat from within and from without as the pirates are raiding the town below the castle. Our heroine can't immediately address the internal threats, but she can keep the pirates from harming her friends in town. In the course of trying and failing to fight the pirates, she makes things worse by getting kidnapped by them and held for ransom. This is ransom no one is going to pay. See the aforementioned internal threat. It's all fine, because naturally, the pirate captain falls for her. I mean why wouldn't he? So now, insert redemption arc for pirates who are going to help her bedevil the internal threat and reclaim the Kingdom. Much swashbuckling, big Goonies energy, tons of fun. Totally reads like I was 12. This one is buried deep and so it will stay.

Second, fanfic. ALL the fanfic. Scads of it. All tucked safely into archives where it can’t get me into trouble for writing inside someone else’s IP. Was it cringe? Maybe. It was 100% self-insert into worlds that fascinated me, but at the time I was writing fanfic, AO3 didn’t exist. I could write whatever I wanted with the knowledge that none of it could be published, ever.

Unless.

It finally occurred to me one day that one could pub fanfic if no one knew it was fanfic. If I could change names and alter the world enough to be its own thing, I might have a viable product. And that’s how I found out it was far easier (and just as much fun) to build your own world and your own characters.

Third, the contemporary romance novel that lacked a single shred of internal conflict. I had a great time writing it. It was my attempt to prove that you could in fact write a rock star romance and make it work. Except, you know, for the fact that I didn't. It was supposed to have one of those 'annoying big brother' books. Curmudgeon and ray of sunshine things. The heroine is there out of necessity, in a position the hero doesn't want her in, but his meddling sister is intent on setting the two of them up. It was big on bickering, low on actual conflict, and it was a hoot to write. It still lives in a box under the bed. It is likely to remain in that box under the bed. I look back at it now recognize a slew of problematic tropes. There's nothing wrong with the heroine trying to prove herself. This story took it wicked too far. This heroine ends up a martyr. The power dynamic between hero and heroine was super dysfunctional. Granted, at the time I wrote it, I had some crappy relationship templates and what was ‘normal’ for me at that point wasn’t, in fact, normal. So yeah. I credit this book with being the one that started me on the journey of actually learning and understanding what makes a romance a romance. The story is okay. But reading it now, I flinch at all the stuff I see that’s wrong. I’m careful not to judge past me by what current me knows. But still. This book, while it holds together, won’t likely see the light of day, ever.

While I can freely admit that my early efforts at fiction might not meet the bar for publication, I want to say that when I use the word ‘cringe’ in this blog, it’s with a fond smile. Cringe is one of those words that has been swept up by society to judge and make fun of something. I don’t want to judge or make fun of someone learning how story works. Not even – or maybe especially not even – when it’s me. We’re allowed to be bad at something we love or are fascinated by. We’re allowed a visible learning curve. There’s art and grace in developing as an artist. The thing that gets lost when we talk about the lack of skill in our early efforts is just how vital and necessary those early efforts were to our survival. These stories I talked about will never be thrown away or deleted. They got me through times I didn’t think I could get through. If our early story efforts are called cringe because we get sexist BS terms tossed at us like ‘Mary Sue’, as if every action movie ever made isn’t some dude’s 14-year-old self-insert fantasy. There’s a fine line between acknowledging that our early works weren’t ready for prime-time and disparaging ourselves as creatives. I bet that if someone could find the first painting Picasso ever did as a child, it could reasonably be called cringe. It would also likely fetch millions on auction.

Who Do You Trust with Your Work?

This week at the SFF Seven, we're asking: how do you know who to trust with your writing, especially early drafts and idea bouncing.

This is similar to a question I get all the time, which is how to pick critique partners and how many I use, including beta readers, etc.

The short answer is that this has changed quite a bit over the course of my career. I've been a member of two different critique groups that met IRL, and I've been part of various clusters of critique partners and beta readers online.

Another short answer is that who I discuss my ideas with or share work with at various stages changes all the time, and varies depending on the type of story and what I need help with. I'm blessed with a number of writer friends at this point who can read for me, and give me what I need, usually blazingly fast, too.

I can also say that I've grown extraordinarily picky about who I bounce ideas with and who I ask to look at early drafts. This is because - and I've used this analogy before - stories in their earliest stages are like infants. Their skulls are still soft and they are fragile beings that must be carefully tended. Just as you'd never hand your newborn child to just any person on the street, you don't want just anyone giving your fragile new idea a good, hard shake.

There is a time and necessary function to the good, hard shake - but that's akin to the college years, when you figure they've got to get drunk and pass out on the couch at the fraternity house at least once and learn some lessons from it.

But not the baby story. The baby story needs love and nurturing. It needs someone who can see the potential and not that dreadfully bulging forehead. I even left one IRL critique group because I felt they were having a negative impact on my work, instead of a positive one.

That's not the topic question, though, right? The question is how do you know who to trust?

There are no easy or short answers to that one, though I'm very much looking forward to hearing what advice my fellow SFFers have to offer. It took me a long time to decide to leave the crit group that wasn't working for me. It can be difficult to separate the very real reaction most humans have to criticism from the intuition that something is having a very real negative impact.

None of us like to have our work criticized, even if we are privately pissed that they passed out on the fraternity house couch. Learning to receive criticism and use it effectively is a huge part of learning to be a professional author.

But not all criticism is useful, and it's not always kindly meant.

So, that's how I decide: I consider the source and their intentions. If feedback from someone feels negative or unkindly meant, I pay attention to where they are with their own work. Are they feeling good about the work they're doing? How do they critique other people's work? Are they otherwise supportive of me and seem genuinely pleased for my successes?

That last question is key, and helped me to decide to leave that group. When I mentioned a success, these same people were sour and unsupportive. I knew then that their criticism of my writing felt negative because it was.

When you figure that out, walk away. Don't trust them with anything fragile again.

Throwback Thursday - Painful Fiction from the Early Years

Early efforts, huh?

Well okay. Just remember that someone (who wasn't me) asked for this. The following stilted and overly dramatic prose is from the first novel I ever managed to complete. It's so old, there are two spaces after every period. This book never met an adverb it didn't like. In fact, you know that meme about the overly attached girlfriend? Yeah. That's this book with adverbs. I love the fact that the characters go from 0 to 60 emotionally. It's a total soap opera and I keep it around because it so tickles me. The scene below is the first meeting of the hero and heroine. We're on maybe page 5 of the manuscript.

            Casey emerged from her shower feeling entirely refreshed.   Wrapped in her towel, she returned to her room  and toweled her hair dry.  She dressed in a leisurely fashion, listening to a song that had been running through her mind all day long.  Running her fingers through her hair to calm the curling copper strands, Casey unlatched her abused guitar case and seated herself on the bed to bend over it.  She plucked out a quiet melody, then altered it when it didn't quite match what she heard in her head.  She realized she wouldn't be able to blithely tuck her love of music out of the way for the convenience of Sonya's brother.  On the other hand, she didn't want to unduly antagonize anyone either.  Casey simply decided she'd have to be careful.  With a smile, she repeated the melodic line she'd just created and ventured to put some words to it.  Shaking her head, she decided her songwriting talent needed considerable polishing. 

            The door to Casey's room slammed open.  Startled, she jumped.  With a discordant twang, a string broke, snapping back to slash her hand.  "Damn it!"  She swore, glaring up at the door.  Her eyes widened.  The most alarmingly handsome man she'd ever seen stood glowering at her from the doorway.  She knew him instantly.  She'd seen Brennen James in concert once herself and owned more than one of his wildly successful albums.

            "Do you always slam into someone else's room without knocking?"  She charged, her voice clipped and short from the pounding of her heart.  "You made me break a string.  Thank you very much."

            "What are you doing here?"  He demanded, eyeing her with a cold, searching gaze.

            "Not that it's any of your business," she returned stung by his imperious tone, "I am here to help Sonya with her wedding.  Oh, damn," she swore again, catching sight of the bloody line along the back of her hand.  She grabbed her wrinkled tee shirt and blotted the blood away. 

            "Let me make something very clear to you, Miss..."

            "Casey Griffin."

            "Let me make something very clear to you Miss Griffin.  I am the only musician in this house.  I will not tolerate your musical pretensions..."  He began.

            Casey bristled, enraged.  Setting her precious guitar carefully aside, she stood and stalked up to meet him.  To her irritation, she found she had to look up to glare at him.  "Listen, you jerk," she shot back.  "You have no idea who I am or what I do.  My musical pretensions are none of your concern.  And until you know what type of musician I am, you'd probably feel less like an ass in the very near future if you kept your mouth shut now."

            She bit her lip, wondering at the wisdom of snapping at her friend's brother.  Besides, it wasn't as if she could hold a musical candle to the man.  With a sigh, Casey decided she should probably have kept her temper under better control.       

            "What amazing green eyes you have.  And that red hair," he observed, his tone amused, but still not terribly friendly.  "I assume that explains your frightful temper.  You look silly in purple," he observed.  "You should wear green."

            Casey stared at him, stupefied.  She wondered if he'd bothered to pay attention to anything she'd said.  It only irritated her all over again. 

"I look like a damn wood elf if I wear green," she groused.  "And no, my hand is fine.  Thank you for your concern.  Get out of my room."

            Brennen James, a man Casey had admired and adored since she'd purchased his first album, stood at her bedroom door and laughed at her.  Casey gritted her teeth and turned her back on him.  She returned to her guitar and carefully set about removing the broken string from its key.

The entire book is like this. So while I managed to write a complete novel, the story never saw the light of day. Editors rightly pointed out that this story has no actual conflict - it's all bickering. The great thing about those rejections was that I got actual REASONS for the rejection. Armed with those, I could learn what internal versus external conflict was. And then I could write a second novel that managed to get it wrong in even more spectacular fashion, but that's another post.

At least I can't offer up my very first attempt at fiction - the 15 year old heroine who was an expert horsewoman, an expert swordswoman, and a great tactician fighting pirates to preserve her father's reign. Oh. And she had a black panther named Scott as a pet. <shrug> Yeah, I dunno. I was twelve and it all sounded like a good idea at the time.

Jeffe's Earliest Writing (More or Less)

Our topic at the SFF Seven this week is a challenge. I'm not sure who proposed this, but it goes: "Share tiny snippet from earliest writing of yours that you can get your hands on. This is kind of a dare, and also I'm nosy."

It IS quite the dare because it's kind of scary to show this super old stuff.

Fortunately, about the oldest thing I could find is SERIOUSLY old. I'm not exactly sure how young I was but I think this poem is from when I was about eleven. I'm pretty sure this is the summer before 17th grade - and I turned twelve right before school started - when I'd gone to a summer enrichment program for gifted and talented kids. I'd taken a poetry class there and had just learned this kind of free form style. I entered several poems into a library contest, at the branch that I could walk to down the street.

(Back then I went by "Jennifer Mize" because I was trying on "Jennifer" as being more adult than "Jeffe," my childhood nickname, and my stepfather hadn't yet adopted me.)

And I won 3rd Place! I have no idea who the judge was, but they were generous to me.

For those unenthused about slogging through the photo, here's the text:

Night

The lady Night is a sorceress, appearing
  joyously in her magic,
    touching things to make them hers.
Her gowns are rich, dark velvets,
                her crown is woven of stars,
                               her wand is a shaft of moonlight -
                     transforming what she wills.
Donning grey, or black, or purple,
               (depending upon her mood),
    she ventures forth forever
                                 dancing in her age-old spells.
Some creatures know her beauty through stirrings
                                          felt in the soul,
               but others know only her darkness,
                                  who can't see the rich black glow.
And her dress lightly rustles as she glides
                                on through my life.

I resisted any edits or corrections. Weirdly enough, I recognize a lot of my current themes and imagery in this.

An interesting exercise, nosy SFF Seven mate!