Reading, Writing & No Arithmetic (Vol I & II)

82 Pages·2014·0.69 MB·English

by  Baeli

Reading, Writing &
No Arithmetic (Volume 2)
Kelli Jae Baeli

SUMMARY:
Kelli Jae Baeli, Indie Author and Publisher with Indie Literati Press and
Lesbian Literati Press, and author of 40 books, numerous articles, stories and
essays, shares some thoughts about the writing craft and the writer’s life, which
necessarily also includes lots of reading. Followed by thoughtful examinations,
splenetic ruminations and often humorous outbursts of weirdness.

Reading, Writing & No Arithmetic (Volume 2)
Copyright: Kelli Jae Baeli Cover design (c) Kelli Jae Baeli ISBN:
Published: 2014
Publisher: Indie Literati Press [email protected]
Twitter @KelliJaeBaeli http://kellijaebaeli.com Kindle Edition, License Notes The right
of Kelli Jae Baeli to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in
accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system,
copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not
circulate this book in any format.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any
form whatsoever. Yadda Yadda, Void where prohibited by law, batteries not included,
don’t feed the monkeys. This is a work of nonfiction. Any resemblance to fiction, living
or dead, is entirely accidental, and should not be mistaken for a story.

Created in The Land of New Zeal.
Table of Contents Author’s Note
Lesbian Readers & Writers
Thoughts from a Literary Contrarian
Alien Methodology
Scribe’s Melancholia, Literary Mind-Expansion & 50 Shades of Grape
Scott Crowder Interview of me on House of Fists
Going Mainstream
Nonfiction & Nonnonfiction
Literary Loitering
Muse Recovery & Descriptive Prose
Hybrid Methodology
Careless Editors & Languishing in Romantical Writer Myths
Holding Saddlehorn
Fiction Writes Me
Good Writers Aren’t Good Accidentally
Writer as Reader, Reader as Writer
Pitfall and the Scoop
The Pitfall of Literary Segregation
Adventures in Indie Publishing, Incident #227
Toward the Light
A Bowl of Cherries Vs. Sucking Beetroot
Don’t be Part of the Problem
Thank you
About the Author
Author’s Note
Perhaps I shall skip the author’s note in this one, since this collection is
me, the writer, writing about writing. And reading. (and as I declared on the
cover, NO arithmetic. What can I say? I don’t like math, and it doesn’t like me
either. Math and I have a sort of mutually assured destruction). Anyway, since
this is a booklet about that, a note from me here would be superfluous. Thus, I
will not write one.
Except to say this: as a writer who happens to be a lesbian, I frequently
write about lesbian characters and their lives. This does not, however, preclude
my ability to write in the mainstream, and I often do. It also does not speak to
the vocation of writing in a general sense, and no matter who they choose as
partners, writers are writers. Except when they’re readers. And some are both.
Like me. And like you, because I assume you are reading this.
Now, on with the book, for which I have refused to write an author’s
note.
Lesbian Readers & Writers
Another writer friend of mine recently posted a blog about the inordinate
amount of winking that goes on in lesbian fiction.
I had to think about that….I know what she means. There are always
some little irritants with those books…I just haven’t read a bad one in so long…
because I…sort of…avoid bad books whenever possible. As for the winking…I
may not have noticed this in lesbian books, because I really don’t read much
lesfic (And like Diana, I hate that word too…in fact, I really don’t even like the
word lesbian. Never have. But I guess we’re stuck with it).
Anyway, the reason I stopped reading lesbian books was because I was
so frequently and so profoundly disappointed in them (and in fact, it was the
reason I started writing novels–I was so dissatisfied with lesbian fiction, and I
wanted to write a book I would want to read). Now, granted, I probably haven’t
read enough of them to have an unbiased view–definitely not a scientific
sampling…but after trying repeatedly, and finding that 9 out of 10 of them were
awful, I just went back to writers I knew and respected. And yes, most of them
are mainstream authors, not lesbians. Early on, I cut my literary teeth on Edgar
Rice Burroughs, Edgar Allen Poe, Darian North, Raymond Obstfeld/Laramie
Dunaway, Robert A. Heinlein, Dean Koontz, (and yes, some Stephen King); and
most recently am enjoying Nelson DeMille and Michael Robotham. The only
lesbian writer I read nowadays is Kate Genet. Yes, she’s my partner, but just
know, dear reader, that I felt this way about her writing before we met, and in
fact, that’s how we met. We both appreciated each other’s writing.
As for other lesbian authors, I seem to recall liking Curious Wine quite a
lot, but that’s been so long ago…and I more recently liked Wall of Silence by
Gabriella Goldsby and Fresh Tracks by Georgia Beers…But I always know that
I will not be disappointed with Kate’s work. She is brilliant, in my humble
opinion. She just seems to write in lesbian sub-genres that aren’t all the rage
with the masses of readers, and so doesn’t get the kudos she deserves, as far as
I’m concerned. I’m sure there are some high quality lesbian writers out there, but
I guess I just gave up trying to find them.
Insofar as feeling some obligation to read authors who are also
SAPPHIC–I mean, who wants to slog through bad books, when you can just stop
reading and look for something else you can really enjoy? I will never live long
enough to read all the GOOD books I want to read, so if the first two pages make
me roll my eyes, I put it away and look elsewhere. With the advent of self-
publishing, anyone who thinks they can write, can publish, without ever paying
their dues, honing their craft. I know. I have been writing for something like 25
years, and I rewrote every book I have until I could be proud of it, applying all
I’d learned to make it the best book it could be. I can go back and read through
my first manuscripts and literally CRINGE at the mistakes I made; how truly
amateurish it was. So I kept writing, kept studying the craft of writing, paying
attention to the writing of those I admired–studying them, and kept applying that
learning to those stories of mine. And that process will never end. There will
always be something else to learn, to make me a better writer.
Curiously, I think there is this concept among lesbian readers (and some
lesbian writers) that lesbian fiction is some type of sacred cow–and should never
be criticized or spoken ill of, which means, they should not be held to the same
standards as all other examples of “good” writing. I wonder why that is? I won’t
defend a book or give it a five star review unless I really feel it is excellent. If I
am not impressed with it or even hate it, I don’t bother with a review at all. To
me, posting a horrid review is less about reviewing the work, and more about
making yourself feel superior in public. And besides, I don’t see the value in
trashing someone else’s work. I wouldn’t want anyone to trash mine. Call it a
professional courtesy. But that doesn’t mean I won’t speak my mind on my own
blog. That’s what it’s for. I just won’t post it under that author’s Amazon or
Smashwords listing.
Having said that, I will mention that as treacherous as these waters can
be, I find most lesbian romances to be cheesy and puerile, with no regard for
clever plotting, character development, or style. I stopped reading het romances
for JUST THAT REASON. I usually abhor formula fiction of any kind, and the
romance genre is replete with every example of what NOT to do if you want to
write a really good book. Great sales and great writing aren’t always on the same
tandem bicycle. Sometimes, it’s simply that there are fewer discerning readers
out there, and quite a few readers who are easily impressed or entertained. I take
my vocation seriously, and I wish they would too. For one thing, it would be
nice if these mediocre or bad writers would learn about mechanics, spelling,
grammar, sentence structure, story arc, and…how about a fresh, unique premise
every now and again?
Okay, I have probably pissed off some people by now, so maybe I should
hush. It’s really awful to have to mince words simply because it might alienate
someone who could be a potential reader. But then again, do I want those types
as my readers? If those readers who are now huffing and puffing and busting a
vein on their foreheads would give it a bit of thought, they’d see that they should
be glad that I care that much about the quality of my own work. I hold myself
and others to the same standard, and it’s because I want every reader to get to the
end of my books and feel satisfied, knowing their time and money was not
wasted.
This whole business is so populated with irony, these days, I can hardly
stand it.
Thoughts from a Literary Contrarian

I enjoy the commonality and compatibility in my current relationship.
(Wait. ‘Current relationship’ makes it sound temporary. It’s not. Let me give that
another go): I enjoy the commonality and compatibility with my love, my life,
my soon to be wife. (Better).
Anyway, we have this ritual of reading every night before sleep, if not
also in blocks of time during the day. As authors, that ritual would be expected,
but I’ve never been with another author before, so I’m going to notice these
things.
I like it. A lot.
Digression Alert: I remember one night, I’m lying in bed with my honey,
reading my Nook book, and she tries to get up, and ker-plunk! falls right in the
floor. She just had a little dizzy spell. I like to think I have that affect on women.
Especially in bed. Hu-HURRR!
Anyway, last night we were settled in with our e-readers, holding hands
between page turning, as usual, and I wanted to tell her how much I was
enjoying my book, so politely asked about hers first.
“What are you reading?”
“It’s about a vampire private investigator,” she said. “I don’t recall the
title…”
I offered, “Sucking Dick?”
This got me a smirk and an eye-roll when I was sure it warranted an
irrepressible guffaw.
I donned the cloak of maturity enough to let that go and told her how
pleased I was with the Michael Stark book I was reading. This is important only
because I rarely enjoy the fiction I find these days… Unless it’s Kate’s work (not
obligatory; I really do love her writing) or the few authors I’ve come across that
don’t bore me or aggravate me (like recent discoveries of Michael Robotham,
Nelson DeMille). I have, in fact, developed a zero-tolerance for all the tripe out
there, especially since the onset of indie publishing, which has compounded the
number of authors who can now publish themselves, but shouldn’t. It’s so
difficult to chop through the underbrush of hackneyed formulas, stilted,
uninteresting dialogue and purple prose. I wince at the deplorable disregard for
the basic skills a writer must nurture, confronted too often with atrocious
spelling, horrible grammar, sloppy mechanics and punctuation, and the specter
of writers unacquainted with concepts like story arc, characterization, and
plotting. Oh why do so many these days think they can write a book just because
they are titillated by the idea of it and not because writing is a part of their core
identity, and they care about the craft and are willing to do the hard work? When
will they understand what an insult it is to writers who have spent the last 10 or
20 years paying their dues, writing and rewriting, honing their skills and
studiously applying what they continue to learn?
…and perhaps more to the point, how did I become such a literary
contrarian?
(Take a breath)
Probably, there is no singular path for an authentic writer to have taken.
Each of our histories are as diverse as the books we write. The one common
denominator for all writers, though, seems to be a love of books and reading.
When I was younger, I was a voracious reader – I devoured everything I
could wrap my fingers around. Yet, perhaps oddly, I have no memory of being
read to by either of my parents. I have no beloved childhood classics burned in
my brain and recalled fondly as a bonding exercise with mommy or daddy. In
fact, I read most of that genre during one of my stints in college when I took a
Children’s Literature course. From that experience, I can say I loved The
Velveteen Rabbit, Dr. Seuss (et al), Maurice Sendak (Where the Wild Things
Are), and Alice in Wonderland, among others that escape me at the moment.
My earliest memories of reading were perhaps preteen years. I read the
Chronicles of Narnia and all of Madeleine L’Engle’s books (and later enjoyed a
written correspondence with her for a while; back when people still sent letters
via snail mail).
I was also a huge fan of Edgar Rice Burroughs– mostly the Tarzan series
and the John Carter on Mars series– as well as Robert A. Heinlein (Though,
regrettably, never exchanged letters with either). All of these books shared a
genre of adventure, and that’s what my mind craved. I wanted to escape, I
suppose, from my hum-drum life.
For some inexplicable reason I then moved into a catalog of cheesy
romance books– Harlequin, Silhouette, and the like. Perhaps out of some peer
pressure, perhaps as a means of at last viewing myself as a romantic creature
headed for sexual exploration.
Looking back on it now, I can see that it served to keep me in my puerile,