Pardon My Intermissions (Monthly Rambles)

This goes out to all the writers who aspire to be published authors: is it more important to write for you or for readers? I was asking myself this question with Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) coming up next month.  I have to say that I haven’t produced at least ten words each November since joining in 2010. Nonetheless, that doesn't dissuade the fact that I love to write, and am still plugging into writing my long-dreamed mystery novel. 

I take my time because I love writing stories that probably–though I say this with extreme doubt considering the vastness of our universe–strike a chord with me and what it is that I want to read about only. Of course, I want to eventually test the waters and share my material with the hopes that readers would connect. But still, it breeds excitement in me to write something pulled from my raw imagination; something that may be more misunderstood than my daily conversations with social individuals.

But I digress…

So what are the foreseeable advantages of writing for yourself versus others–considering you want to be published? It’s kind of a double-edged question, really. Should you want to be paid and published (or perhaps marketable), you may want to concern yourself with targeting a specific audience of readers. If you just want to trample along the pages, unleashing every curve of your imagination, then you may have to hold on to your material privately.  Especially for the sake of not having to chop and screw the material into publishable form. But who really wants to do either of the two? 

So maybe the better question is how much should you focus on writing for yourself while keeping readers in mind?

Towel did not win him over. And I knew she wouldn't.

This is something I questioned back in early 2009 when I tried to find an agent for a book I'd written. In response, the agent's first criticism was that he didn't like the names of my characters [Towel and Cornbread], names which were nicknames for characters who've lived inside my head for years.  I've written about the two many times before, but at that moment I had spent nine months drafting and editing the two an urban fantasy story with a touch of Buffy intact.  Or enough Buffy that I just knew their story was markable, despite their names. Nonetheless, I took his words gracefully, because inside and from the very start, I kind of knew it would be an issue. I suppose I just didn't care, having lived all the wildness of my fantasies on paper and through these characters for nine months.

So my ending thought is that sometimes you have to write the raw stuff for yourself, and the other stuff with readers outside your realm of strangeness in mind.  Then again, sometimes you just have to change the names, tweak a little bit more, then try again.

Ramble Ending.  Signing Out.