Who is Andrea Brokaw?

So, I've got this line in my query letter about going to my website to learn more about me.  But there's not actually much about me here. This strikes me as a problem.

I was going to ask folks for a list of things I should mention in a biographical post or a FAQ, but then it occurred to me that it would be more fun to put up a "What others say about Andy," post.  So...  If someone asked you, "Do you know Andy Brokaw?  What can you tell me about her?"  what would you say?

I'm letting my son (Eric, age seven) go first...

"She's very nice and sweet.  I mean, what kind of not-nice person would get her son his favorite candy almost everytime she goes to the grocery store?"

So, there we have it.  I'm nice, sweet, and wrapped about my kiddo's little finger.  What else should people know?

I Don't Want To Read This, So You Can't Either!

Banned Books Week is in full swing. (If you need more information on what that is, see its official page.)

I read an article in the Wall Street Journal this weekend that was somewhat disturbing.  (Finding Censorship Where There Is None.)

The article leads with a statement that censorship isn't much of a problem in the United States because censorship is defined as a government act. Alright, our government isn't stealing books off library shelves. Our government isn't hosting book burnings. Our government isn't going on TV and saying certain books shouldn't be allowed in our communities. It's private groups doing these things.

The article also argued about the use of the word 'ban' with the claim that a book is only banned if it's difficult for the average person to obtain and that since the invention of Amazon this is hard for anti-book groups to accomplish in America. Yes, it is true that as long as it is legal to have anything in print, we do have the option of buying whatever we want and having it mailed to us from more tolerant locations. If we have money. I don't think it's fair to say we shouldn't be worried or upset when literary materials are taken from libraries simply because we can always pay to order the book from somewhere else.

Furthering the issue taken with 'ban' the article points out that much of the discussion during Banned Books Week isn't about books that actually were banned anywhere in the US, but about books that were challenged. I'll grant the truth of this. But it doesn't mean we shouldn't be worried that there are so many people out there who think they have the right to dictate what's available to everyone else.

The article goes on to point out that most of the challenges have taken places in schools and claims, “What inflames the ALA, in other words, are attempts by parents to guide their children's education.” (Oh! Invoke our kids to get an emotional response from us! Classy!) It's the sort of statement that makes me wonder if the writer is deliberately missing the point. Petitioning a school to remove a book from its library doesn't merely impact the children of those complaining, it impacts all children at the school. And where is it going to end? You don't like Harry Potter because you think magic is evil? Okay. What if I wanted to ban the Little House books for being too preachy and Christian? You want to protect your child from the language of Cather in the Rye? Well, I want to shield mine from the sheer nastiness of The Scarlett Letter. Upset over the homosexuality in The Perks of Being a Wallflower? Moby Dick is about pursuing the brutal murder of a whale! Name a book and I'll think of something about it that's objectionable to somebody. If you're really so worried that your child is going to be ruined by reading Philip Pullman, maybe you should consider not allowing your kid to read his works. Personally, I'd be happy to lend my son my copy of the His Dark Materials trilogy.

If you want to read an excellent account from someone who strongly believes that book bans are alive and well, probably because some dimwits in Oklahoma decided to ban her books recently, check out Ellen Hopkins's account of her recent experiences.

I'm celebrating my freedom to read whatever I like by ordering several of Ellen Hopkins's books. What are you doing?

 

Is This Good Enough?

My seven-year-old has responsibility to clean two rooms. One is his bedroom, but I never make him bother with it unless someone like my grandmother is coming to visit because I've never in my life had a neat bedroom and frankly think they're overrated. My room is my sanctuary, it should reflect me. And I'm not a neat person. Neither's my son.

The other room he's supposed to clean is the game room, which he uses much more than anyone else. For the most part, he does a decent job, but once a fortnight or so it'll fall apart and he'll have to be nagged to tidy it. Several times during the process, he'll appear before a parent with the question, “Is this good enough?”

His father will state there's no such thing as 'good enough' and the room is either clean or it isn't. This is bullshit. After all, it isn't like we expect the kid to shampoo the carpets or anything. He's not aiming for immaculate, but for 'clean enough my parents will shut up.' He's absolutely going for good enough and just wants someone to tell him what that is.

I'm thinking about this now because this morning I started attacking Shadow again, ripping apart the opening chapters and gluing them back together in a way that will hopefully be more demanding of attention. I'm supposed to be done with Shadow. I thought I was. I thought I couldn't do anything else to it, or I wouldn't have been trying to get people to look at it over the summer. But the people I did convince to glance at it didn't love it, leaving me wondering if the problem was them or if my story isn't good enough.

There's controversy over the words 'good enough' in the writing community. Some people are very offended by it, saying we shouldn't be aiming for good enough but for our best. Well, yes... But... When do we know if our current best is good enough for anyone else? There's never going to be a point when I can't look at something I've written and come up with something to change about it. I'm one hundred percent certain of that. And I can point to several books on my shelves that are revisions of books published earlier in the their author's careers, which leads me to assume other writers are the same way.

Like my son cleaning the game room, I'm looking for good enough. Good enough to make myself happy.  Good enough not to embarrass myself. Good enough to entertain others. Good enough to be published. Those are four different good enoughs. And I have little idea what's good enough by the standards of strangers. I know I can't drag them over to my manuscript, force them to look at it, and demand they give me a straight answer on the issue. So I struggle along, working in my vacuum and wondering if I'm even in the vicinity of where I'm supposed to be.

 

 

To Be Or Not To Be

I have been largely silent over the last few weeks, not just on this blog but elsewhere. It was likely obvious from my posts before the withdrawal that I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic or even content. That's only part of why I've been gone though. The instigating factor behind me crawling under a rock for awhile was the death of my laptop power adapter. I could have continued to post using my beloved's computer or even my phone, but I was already dispirited so it was easy to just curl up instead.

I've been thinking a lot while being curled up in my figurative ball, trying to get a better idea of where I'm going and if that's somewhere I actually want to be.

Back in high school, I had a class in Shakespeare. I was thrilled when I saw it offered at my new school, but the thrill didn't last. I had to drop at the end of the semester because it was obvious to me that if I didn't I was going to completely lose my love of the subject matter. The over-analysis of the materials murdered everything I enjoyed about them. Some people would be pointing fingers at the teacher over this, saying that if she'd focused more on how entertaining and clever Shakespeare is and less on remembering which bit character had a line in Act Three, Scene Four and on writing entire essays on the symbolism of one word in one line, the choosing of which I was certain was determined by the sound of the word more than its meaning, maybe I wouldn't have been so turned off. But I've always thought she did me a favor. Because of her, I knew I didn't want to be a lit major. Not that I couldn't be one, just that if I went that direction I was going to turn into someone I didn't want to be.

To clarify, I'm not saying all lit majors are joyless people with souls deadened by critical snark and pedantic attention to meaningless details that detracts from appreciation of the overall work. I'm just saying I was pretty sure I would end up thus. And I didn't want that to happen. I was born loving stories and I wasn't going to do anything to kill that.

Which is one of the reasons I'm upset with myself lately.

In the last two weeks, I have given up on two books without finishing them. This used to never happen, but lately there've been more books that I either haven't finished or have realized when I did that I should have trusted the instinct thirty pages in to toss the thing in Goodwill's direction.

The book before last I just didn't connect with. It didn't help that I thought the author was trying too hard to be Meg Cabot. Meg Cabot's a goddess, trying to be her if you're anyone else is going to fail. There were a few details that bugged me, but the big problems were the fake-seeming voice and the sad fact that I was bored by the story and the main character. I wasn't happy to give up on it, but I hung in for several extra days trying to make myself like the book and I just couldn't do it.

The one I stopped yesterday bothers me more. In part, I hated the main character. If that was the only problem, I wouldn't be upset with myself. This person was in many ways an anti-me.  But since I despised her I had zero tolerance for other problems. Like when the love interest, who was supposed to be an alpha male but who reacted to things like a rather wussy female, started saying things while his lips were pressed together in a tight line. Without there being any mention of him being a ventriloquist. The bitchiness lines like that was bringing forth in me really bothers me. I don't want to be hateful just because someone organizes her sentences in ways I don't approve of. I don't want to feel an urge to throw a book at the wall because the author used some descriptors that seemed to contradict each other. I don't want to be pissy for hours because I came across an egregious run-on sentence. I want to enjoy the story.

I can only hope that when I shift from editing my work to death and return to writing something completely new I'll start being more accepting.

Earlier in the summer I was very worried about slaughtering my love of writing with all the things I've been forcing on myself in the quest to find publication. I'm struggling not to let that happen. I had thought losing the joy of writing could well be the spiritual death of me. Now I'm terrified of murdering my ability to enjoy reading. I really don't know what'll be left of me if that happens.

 

UPDATE: I wrote this yesterday but couldn't post it due to a forgotten password.  Last night, I started a new read, The Adoration of Jenna Fox by Mary E. Pearson.  Why did I take so long to buy this book?  It's amazing!  I love it!  And am very happy to be loving it. =)