A Tale of Two Manuscripts and the Kings of Leon

So I was asked to read two manuscripts (not by any followers of this blog, so breathe easy). One was charming. It had a concept perhaps done before, but the writing was cute and sparkly with characters I cared about. The other . . . to be honest, I read it three weeks ago, and I cannot recall a single thing about any of the characters except one person's profession. Occasionally, dialogue was enough to make me smirk or laugh (in a good way, it was supposed to be witty), but . . . in the end, I finished and thought, "Why did this novelist write this? What did he have to say?" It felt like a big blank to me.

Which brings me to my new obsession:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHhhcKxflMY

I was listening to this song yesterday with Oldest Daughter and recounting a Rolling Stone article in which the journalist said that Caleb was, as the band was forming, encouraged to add studio musicians, and instead insisted on his two brothers and a cousin. It could have been career suicide (he was an unknown), but the boys' background in the Pentocostal church and strange upbringing (no formal schooling; just traveling in an Oldsmobile to revivals with their preacher-father) probably meant the family was who he felt comfortable around. To which Oldest Daughter replied, "It was him they wanted. His voice is unique and no one in music right now sounds quite like him." And she's right. There is, beyond garage boogie--Southern gothic--grunge metal something, an unusual quality to his voice. The label wanted Caleb. And if it meant the other boys coming along for the ride, that was okay.

Which brings me to the tale of the two manuscripts.

I have conceived of, easily eight different ideas this year for books. Probably more. All "hook" concepts, playing with voice. I don't KNOW, but they all feel pretty unique. All high-concept. But it's a question of voice and follow-through. I mean, concept is okay--but what are you going to DO with the concept. As I write and explore, I am constantly looking for what's different. What makes my story unusual and why am I the one to write it?

The type of music the Kings of Leon make has been done before. But not quite the same way. So it was with the manuscripts. One somehow took a premise of a mystery chick-lit and made it her own. The other . . . I can't think of anything in the voice that made me pause and think, "This guy is fresh. This is original."

There's a lot of chatter about bringing your A-game now that the market is depressed, and the book biz is scrambling to reinvent itself. I would hope (though I know it's not true entirely) that it means everyone is nailing the basics of storytelling as far as back story dumps and characterization, and plotting, and conflict. But A-game, I am consistently feeling, is that not quite quantifiable voice that makes an editor pause and think, "This is fresh."

Thoughts? Do you think uniqueness is elusive? What's special about what you're bringing to your A-game?

Why Write?

The discussion yesterday of what writers are worth begs another question after seeing the responses and comments. Why write?

I have to be REALLY honest here (aren't I always?). I write to earn a living. Yes, I can be completely lofty and craft-driven. It can be my passion. I would write even if I didn't publish, but it would be in a different form, I think. I might blog about my kids, or about life, or about philosophy, or physics, or the universe. I might blog about God or gardening or knitting or my prayer and spiritual life. I would always write because it's who I am.

But I write, very specifically, to earn a living. I don't write to be known or have my book on a cover. The fact that it is on a cover earns me money. I write because I am not particularly qualified to do anything else. I can run a small newspaper, I can write for magazines, I can be a ghostwriter or book editor, but I can't usually get to the office on time, and I don't particularly like having a boss. I don't want someone to tell me what time I get to eat lunch. I don't like the way an office full of people can come to near-blows over issues pertaining to making the coffee or how to label personal items in the fridge. I don't want Big Brother reading my email or looking at what sites I visit. If I feel like wasting time, I want that perogative. Because given my work ethic, if I waste time now, trust me, I'll be working hours and hours unseen and still doing the work of two or three people because, as Demon Baby says, "That's how I roll, Baby." (He also is fond of, as we walk out the door now, saying, "Let's rock and roll, Mama." I am doomed. The kid is eccentric.)

But in the end, I write to make a living. So that entails writing things that are publishable. Watching the market, watching trends, thinking and plotting career strategies. And lots of writing.

I meet people all the time who are "thinking about" writing a book. I can meet them ten years later and they will STILL be "thinking about" it. I meet people whose books are so far from marketable that I don't quite know what to say. There's writing for friends and family and yourself, and there's writing to sell. They are two different animals. There's thinking about it, and doing it.

So when I think about what my time is worth, what I am worth as a writer, it is predicated on my being absolutely CRYSTAL clear about why I write. I really and totally do not write because I would just die without it. It's not how I breathe. It's important to me, it's part of me. But no, I write to earn a living. I would die without my children and without prayer, not without writing. I write because I like the lifestyle. I write because I don't particularly work and play well with others. I get frustrated by stupidity really fast, which pretty much precludes me working in most corporations. I write to earn a living and it's what I do, I think well. And that means I need to be razor sharp about what's selling, what's dead in the water, and how I spend my time.

This is what I do. And if I seem . . . steely-eyed about it, I am. Writing keeps a roof over my head, food on the table, and a violin in a case for Oldest Daughter. I don't have time to craft a novel no one will buy. I don't have time to "think about" it. I have to DO IT, every day, ass in this chair. FOCUS.

So why do you write?