Just a fly-by posting here. I’ve posted over at the Midnight Hour, comparing writing to seeing a monster under a blanket. (Short and sweet, just like the rest of me today.) Yesterday I finished the copyedits on Valentine 3 (whoo!) which is due out next autumn/winter, last I heard. Today is for writing those damn supplementary materials–I’m thinking an interview with Danny for Bounty Hunter Holomag, or some such foolishness. Also on the agenda today is extending the glossary and writing the acks, then plunging into the edits (not copyedits, just fine-tuning) on book 4. If I get that done this weekend it’s going to be straight into book 5 without a break. Because, well, I work best that way.

Phew. Not a paragraph break to be found, above. I must be more flittish than I thought.

Last night I lay in bed with the wind moaning about, the windchimes I’ve hung everywhere singing their own peculiar tunes (I’m sure my neighbors hate me on windy nights) and I worried. It’s the kind of worry that only shows up at night, and I’m glad it’s dispelled in morning light, even if I am so tired I could…fall asleep all over again. Dammit, I wasn’t meant to be up during the day. I’m a night beastie.

Oh, and if you like such things, the Smart Bitches cover snark today is especially fine. (If you’re offended by things like constipation jokes and pre-op-tranny humor, don’t click.) Ahhh. I choked on my coffee not twice but thrice, and laughed myself right off my chair. That’s a good feeling.

It’s about time for a good old-fashioned writing wank, isn’t it? It’s been too long. I’ve been writing about family and cooking and cleaning and the Chihuahua of Real Life. (Short aside: I was listening to an old mix CD this morning and have rediscovered my conclusion that Joan Osborne rocks. Totally. Also on this mix CD is Jewel’s Under the Water, which is Muse crack like nobody’s business.)

I happened across May’s short but thought-provoking post about “readers are not stupid.” Her Muse is screaming it, and May realises the Muse is right. Spoon-feeding Readers will get your book hurled across the room in a hurry–faster, in fact, than just about anything else.

There is tremendous pressure to spoon-feed. The publishing industry doesn’t think readers are stupid per se; it just wants a Sure Thing. There’s a temptation to see a novel of spoon-fed pablum as something so inoffensive it can’t help but succeed. Inoffensive and easy mean it should appeal to the largest number of people, right? And if it appeals, they’ll buy it and the publisher will recoup its initial outlay. Right?

Right?

Well, mostly wrong. As Elizabeth Bear points out, it’s an artist’s duty to “get the blood on the page.” (Whole other discussion down that road. Stay on track, Lili.) In order to have a believable bloodspatter, you can’t dis your reader’s intelligence. Readers like to figure things out for themselves. They like to be surprised and pleasantly bamboozled. The greatest trick in being a writer is like being a stage magician: take something ordinary, make it vanish in plain sight, and bring it back. The trick that is too transparent fails to enchant. (A little Prestige humor for you there.)

Treating the reader as stupid (or even unintelligent, or needing to be shielded from the harsher realities of life) is like shooting yourself in the foot. I mean, come on. Hamlet doesn’t end happily, and we can see him heading for a train wreck, though Shakespeare doesn’t hold our hands and explain in two-syllable baby words why he does what he does. (Describing what he’s going to do in iambic pentameter doesn’t count.) The Last Unicorn (thank you, Bear) doesn’t “end happily” either, and there’s a lot in that book that a Faithful Reader must figure out for him- or herself. We know Schmendrick’s problem is letting go and letting the magic come through him. He doesn’t figure it out until the end. That’s a very universal human thing–who among us has not seen the mote in our friend’s eye better than the beam in our own?

Readers do not want to be coddled. (At least, no reader I’ve discussed this with, including Yours Truly, claims to want it.) Coddling can happen in two ways: the simplistic telling instead of showing, or the highly academic and technical weighting of a book with long involved words that show Just How Smart Teh Author Is–Smarter, In Fact, Than Thee. Either way is a copout, and Readers, especially Faithful Readers, hate a copout.

Now, I do occasionally read comfort-food books where there’s a degree of hand-holding. But that great sin is usually balanced out by a fantastic concept, or great dialogue, or something else that makes the book worth reading despite my irritation at a writer who seems to think I’m daft.

A story does not have to be explained to be understood. Look at fairy tales. We never question why Bluebeard kills his wives, or why the gingerbread witch wants to eat children (what else does a monster do when it catches you? as Stephen King points out.) The mistake plenty of most writers make is thinking that explanation breeds understanding. Anyone who has ever dealt with a determined-to-be-angry teenager can tell you all the explanation in the world sometimes only makes things worse. I’m not saying that explanation is bad, just that it should be used judiciously. Don’t explain when showing the effects will do. Don’t ever explain because you think the readers are stupid. They’re not.

In most cases, including my own, readers are smarter than thee, dear writer. Readers sniff out bullshit like a Southern Baptist mamma smells damnation. They will correct your grammar, your history, your ballistics, and your Russian (thank you, Ms. Yusova. The upcoming short story is, in fact, due to your gentle correction. *grin*). They will catch the most meaningless and the most intentional of errors. They will ask questions and wait for answers with bated breath. Readers hate copouts because they’re smarter than copouts, dammit, and if they’re going to spend good money on your book the least you can do is not insult their intelligence.

Writers have a few duties–duties to the Muse, for one. The Muse hates a copout as much as a Reader does. We have a duty to ourselves, to keep strong and healthy enough to stare unflinching into the heart of a story without punking out. We have a duty to our readers, to tell a ripping good story. And we have a duty to the story itself, (which amounts to the duty to the readers) that wondrous thing that chooses us to tell it. As simply and wonderfully as possible, with the fewest flaws we can manage.

Oh, and we should have fun. It’s hard to have a grand old time when you’re wondering if someone else is too unintelligent to understand your characters. Let your characters show themselves the way we learn about each other–by seeing what they do. That’s a far more rollicking rollercoaster ride than the baby duck pond. Strap yourselves in, dear writers, and take that big scary rollercoaster.

I promise it’ll be okay. You might even thank me for it. And the Readers will (almost) certainly thank you.

The Shrub waited until Congress was out of session to appoint a raging conservative to the board of the Corporation For Public Broadcasting. This was the guy who couldn’t get approved by a Congressional committee, so Bush just…struck when he thought nobody was looking.

Here’s the teeny NY Times condensation of the news item:

President Bush has appointed a conservative television producer to the board of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. The appointee, Warren Bell, executive producer of ABC’s “According to Jim,” was first nominated by President Bush in June. In September, his nomination was pulled from the agenda of a Senate committee because of some lawmakers’ concerns about Mr. Bell’s background. In May 2005 he described himself as “thoroughly conservative in ways that strike horror into the hearts of my Hollywood colleagues.” Because Congress is in recess, Mr. Bush can appoint Mr. Bell without its approval. (NY Times)

Huh. Purely for your own information, here’s where to contact the CPB. As someone whose kids watch Sesame Street and OPB all the time, I’m a bit worried. I mean, the conservatives already have Fox News. Aren’t they satisfied?

In the back end of the calendar year–you know, that little tail between Christmas eggnog and New Year’s champagne (they used to call it champers, like an ugly mule) it’s often time to look back and reflect upon the year.

Which incidentally means blog posts, doesn’t it.

Some things about 2006:

* The death of Anna Politkovskaya. Speaking truth to power does not grant one much safety. And Putin, the thug, waited three days before promising an investigation. Yeah. In today’s Russia, we can guess just how far an investigation’s going to go.

* The art of Lisa Yuskavage. Her nudes are not work-safe, so if you’re easily offended by nudes or in a workplace don’t click. But I love her celebration of the female form; I’ve loved her art since I came across it in W Magazine’s recent art issue.

* Spike Jones’s When the Levees Broke, a documentary about Hurricane Katrina and the ongoing betrayal of New Orleans. It’s still hellish down there away from downtown–I was just reading in the New York Times how there’s still garbage piled on streets away from the news cameras, how the smell of rot is still overpowering. We’re the richest country in the world and we can’t clean up one city in THIS amount of time? Something is very wrong here.

* The spanking handed to the neotheocrats in the 2006 midterm elections. I haven’t been so excited over exit polls in YEARS. And the news about Rumsfeld’s departure (aw hell, let’s call it what it is, the dude was canned) was sweet balm to a political consciousness grown sour.

* Bush finally getting the hint about what the American people want–their sons, daughters, husbands, wives, fathers, mothers back home. Will he take the hint, or will reality prolong its vacation from his worldview?

* Subscriptions to the New York Times and the Economist are a good thing. It keeps one’s brain fed, at least.

There is more, of course, 2006 was a busy year. But that’s a subject for tomorrow. We have a whole week until the alcohol-soaked festival of pain that is New Year’s, which I will be spending ensconced at home with a few movies and some brownies. I hate driving, this time of year.

I hope your Christmas was wonderful and peaceful, and I hope your Boxing Day is a delight. Most of all, I wish all my Readers–and indeed, everyone on earth–a little peace, a lot of love, and tons of goodwill.

Something hilarious happened recently that I put in my post at the Midnight Hour. If she hadn’t snarled “Merry Christmas” at me I would have shaken the whole incident off. But the sense of entitlement, as well as the backhanded holiday cheer, just amused me to no end.

I hope your Christmas is decent, and that everyone is pleasant and unstressed. I hope the cooking goes well and the family gatherings are peaceful. I especially hope for peace on earth and goodwill toward all, since it seems in bloody short supply especially this time of year.

In short, I plan to spend the holiday lounging around, picking at unfinished books, and enjoying myself. I hope your day, dear Reader, is just as potentially pleasant.

Gods bless us, every one.

A quadruple batch of sugar-cookie dough is a messy proposition in my Kitchen-Aid mixer.

That is all.

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Most Serene Highness Lady Lilith the Sardonic of Westessexchestershire Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Isn’t it just so ME?

And a happy Solstice to you all, my dear Readers! Tonight is a night for mulled wine, sugar cookies (like little Suns) and a vigil. Unfortunately, as a mummy I need my sleep more than I need to vigil, so a candle will be holding vigil for me. And I’m having dinner with the Selkie tonight.

A quick review: I just Netflixed Jimmy Stewart in Harvey, and absolutely loved it. I loved the movie to pieces and bought it immediately from Amazon. It is a wonderful gentle movie with several dark undertones that pleased me to no end. And the “how are you today, Mr. Wilson?” moment gave me chills. The movie, though old, is pure Muse crack. (To Kill A Mockingbird has been following me around–several people have mentioned it, and it was on the telly several times during my latest Seattle trip, so I’d better watch that soon, too.)

Also heading for me is a Clint Eastwood set (Sergio Leone spaghetti Westerns) that will provide us with hours of viewing enjoyment. I love Clint. Not as much as Kim Harrison loves him, but my adoration for the Man With No Name rides high.

Anyway, I’m off to clean up and start baking. A very merry Solstice to you all, and I hope your holidays are bright.

Here’s the slideshow of the Seattle photos, shot during my vacation last week. If you want just the Pike Place ones, shot as the hideous windstorm came crashing in, click here. Enjoy–and please let me know what you think!

The Sullen Teen has a friend spending the night–nice, polite boy, who won’t mention when he’s hungry. Fortunately, in this house everyone gets fed almost by accident, and the friend has been stuffed to the gills more than once. The Sullen Teen is excited, just like a little kid. Was I ever this hilariously fraught in my younger years?

Although I can’t blame him. Having A Friend Over is a sign that he truly belongs, and the friend’s approval of his living space is key. We’re not on our best behavior (we are, I think, fairly decent at all times) but we are all conscious of the Sullen Teen’s mood and that this is a Momentous Occasion, World-Shattering In Its Significance.

Snerk.

It’s closer to forty degrees than thirty this morning, and going outside is not nearlyt he shock it was last night. It feels much warmer than it is, mostly I suspect because of the cloud cover. I plan on spending this morning (what’s left of it) going through the Seattle photos and uploading them to Flickr. I took upwards of three hundred, but I think only fifty or so will make it through my critical eye.

In other news, our museum membership cards came yesterday. I feel like a real person now, with a museum membership and EVERYTHING. I need to go to the Egyptian exhibit with the Martian Moon Crab, Monk, and the Kiwi; plus I need to drag the Sullen Teen, the Princess, and the Little Prince. I went with Sweetcakes before I left for Seattle, and it was AMAZING. The statue of Sekhmet alone was hair-raising.

The wind is up, the clouds are here, and I am partially caffeinated. What more could a girl ask for?

Oh, I wouldn’t say no to another couple thousand words on the fifth Valentine book. We need to get through the double-cross and the empty casket, you know, as well as the first real fight between the Prince and his Eldest.

Aren’t I mean? Have a good day, Readers. Wish me luck.