Author: Stefanie Snider

Novelist, wife, vengeful harpy.

Never Not Doing

Stefanie Snider

I spent the day yesterday transcribing a story I’d written by hand into my laptop for editing. It’s one that’s been kicking around for months, lingering across two notebooks because it’s more fun to start something new than to sit like a chained monkey copying something old. It was a boring thing to do, and I cursed myself the whole time.

Why in the world did I write it longhand in the first place? What was I thinking?

It’s because shoving a notebook into my bag is easier than lugging a laptop. And it’s unthinkable not to have something to work on, on my person, at all times.

Maybe it’ll help my writing practice. Maybe it’ll see me locked away in a mental hospital. Either way, I’m incapable of just…sitting.

Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, but the idea of wasting all that time just copying when I could have been editing or writing drives me nuts. I was only transcribing, to make sure I was getting all those scribbles down. I didn’t have the tv or radio on. No headphones. It just felt wrong. I mean, it takes all I have to sit with company and only be talking. My hands fidget, wanting to be loosed and typing something or knitting something, or…

I don’t think of it as a deficit. It’s not that I can’t focus, or retain, it’s that doing one thing isn’t enough. How people sit and just watch tv, I will never understand. Being at the beach in Hawaii, as beautiful as it was, nearly killed me with boredom until I caved in and read a book.

I don’t think it makes me better than other people; it makes me more neurotic, that’s for sure. That’s good for art, right?

If I could write while I worked my day job, with headphones blaring, I think I’d be a much happier person.

What about you? What are your weird little quirks?

 

 

Waiting Games

Stefanie Snider

When I finished school, I felt so relieved. I wrote my last test and thought There. I don’t ever have to do this again. No more waiting nervously for results, to see if I passed or failed. Then I got through my first job interview in my day-job field and thought Okay, for real, NOW I’m done.

Joke was on me, though.

I just submitted another story for potential publication. One that I really like; frankly I think it’s pretty well written. I think it’s interesting. But every submission is like another job interview. You make sure you’ve dressed the part (editing) and sit there nervously waiting to be called in (awaiting acknowledgement). There’s an awkward dance where you hope you’ve answered all their questions correctly (hope you have a story they like), then you gather your things, leave, and sit at home by the phone waiting for someone to get back to you. It’s all on them at this point. You’ve done your bit. And if they decide they didn’t like your hair, or your shoes, or whatever, you’re done. Or maybe you legitimately sucked, and it’s not a job you should have even applied for. You won’t know anything until you hear back.

I’m a pretty anxious person. The funniest bit about me pursuing a writing career is that I’ve effectively signed on for hundreds, if not thousands of little job interviews. Forever.

And though I’m already moving on to other stories, other projects, I have to admit it’s still lurking at the back of my mind. (Okay, the front, where it blazes its name in flashing lights, but whatever.)

There’s the hope that it’s as good as I think it is. The hope that “they” will have enjoyed it. Of course, there’s also the hope that they liked it so much they can’t fathom their next anthology without it and they’re going to halt publication altogether until I sign on (though that last bit might be a bit of a stretch).

So if you need me, I’ll be over here writing, jumping every time my email notification sounds. Is there a drinking game for spam email?

Movie Monday: Lessons on Writing from “The Horrible Sexy Vampire”

Stefanie Snider

Horrible Sexy Vampire

The movie starts with an invisible murderer killing a man in the shower. Alright, not bad. Then what happens?

NOTHING. NOTHING HAPPENS. IT’S SO BORING.

Well then, what can we gain from watching The Horrible Sexy Vampire? It teaches a lot about how not to write dialogue—NEVER EVER write like this*. (Lines appearing one after the other are as spoken in conversation. I’ve tried to interpret the punctuation so you can “hear” it in all its glory.) Enjoy.

Unlikely characterization: “In my opinion, we cannot prove nor disprove the existence of vampires.” A pathologist, presumably a man of science, arguing with a logical police investigator.

Exhaustive exposition: I was going to transcribe the pathologist’s statement of how we “know” it’s a vampire going around murdering these people (including math equations!), but it’s just paragraph after paragraph of blather. The characters just stand there, static, while one talks at the other.

Awkward delays in plot: “That baron should be buried downstairs in the cellar, and so should his wife. We may be able to open their tombs.” “…What do you suppose they’ll hold, other than their crumbling bones?” “First we’ll have to find the door.” “Of course.”

“Explaining is stupid; why should I bother?” Yeah, I have nothing to say about that one.

“Written” language rather than realistic speech: “I dislike idle conjectures.”

Lack of editing-slash-logic: “…the last owner had no children.” “Are you referring to my mother?”

Characters don’t really talk to each other, they just talk: “Pardon my indiscretion, but what is it you do in London?” “Well, I’m not actually forced to do anything. I have a steady source of income and devote myself to my hobby of taxidermy. I should say I spend a huge amount of my time doing that.” “How interesting. You’re really most kind. Many thanks again.”

Throwaway dialogue: “What’s the time?” “It’s three past midnight go to bed.” “Tomorrow then bye.” (two barmaids)

Major lessons to take away: watch pacing and dialogue. Eliminate lengthy walking sequences where nothing happens. Make sure characters actually communicate instead of just blurting dialogue at each other. Also, edit for realism: I doubt a real cop would go on at length about intimate murder-case details to a perfect stranger (who, by the way, is also a suspect).

Runners-up for awfulness: One character literally rubs at his eyes in disbelief, on two separate occasions. Also, surprise vampire necrophilia.

Kudos, though, to the invisible vampire: a trait somewhat underused in vampire stories. That’s the only compliment I can give this one.

*This movie was originally in Spanish; but my argument stands. Someone still made these horrible dialogue choices when the screenplay was translated. And the plot speaks the universal language of suck.

Merry Christmas!

Stefanie Snider

Don’t have much to say today (just waiting for the soft ginger cookies to cool before we head out for another huge family dinner) but I wanted to wish all of you a Merry Christmas. If you’re reading this, you’re supporting me, and I appreciate you. Thanks.

Hope you’re having a great holiday, with those you love best. I know I am.

(I get all soppy in my black little heart this time of year. Back to blood and guts tomorrow, promise.)

Keeping Secrets

Stefanie Snider

Working on a new story is a secret process.

Sure, you might see me clicking away at my netbook in the breakroom (yes, I know it’s pink, it was on sale, shut up) or watch me brighten with epiphany and scurry off to scribble it down (or maybe it looks like I have the runs; I’ve never actually seen my epiphany-face).

It’s fine if you know that I’m working on something new. My whole goal is to always be working on something new.

But.

Nothing will kill a story faster than telling someone what it’s about. It’s instant death. It’s peeling the shell off a chick half-formed.

Because no matter how well-meaning, someone will always try to “help”.

Maybe I’m over-protective, but as soon as someone else has put in their two cents, the story no longer belongs just to me. Now it has the smudge of someone else’s fingerprints, and the rest of the time I’m working on the piece I can’t stop glancing at those little blotches someone else left. Maybe their suggestion is fantastic: I’m not trying to negate, here. But once someone else has touched the story, I’m no longer the sole captain of that ship.

Writing is ultimately for an audience. Part of what kept me from finishing anything (for years!) was the fear of not having anyone like it. The whole point is to entertain the reader. To make them feel satisfied with the time they spent on your story. If you don’t ultimately concern yourself with the reader, you might as well be scrawling on the walls in a closet somewhere.

But first, before the reader gets let in, the story is just for me. I want to write something that I enjoy, without tailoring it to some demographic. I need time to experiment, to fail catastrophically and nix the whole damn thing if I have to. That freedom is worn away every time the partially-finished story is told; suddenly you have expectations (I thought this was about zombies? Where did the mysterious strangers in the bushes go? Why did you change the names?). And expectations weigh the story down, tying tiny little ropes to it until it can’t move anywhere.

So please: don’t ask what it’s about yet. And if you do, I apologize in advance for my grimace.

Artists! Bring Out Your Skeletons!

Stefanie Snider

After yesterday’s post I found a video that instantly changed my views on writing, and on being a “new” writer. If you’re an artist, in any form, you need to see this.

More artists need to do this: to reveal, even occasionally, their awkward first attempts. All that we fledglings see are the polished pieces, and it’s reassuring to see proof that once, even the experts kind of…sucked.

Little Fish Gets Schooled

Stefanie Snider

It’s tough being a little fish.

I’ve always written. I remember my public school having their own “book binding” (Grade Eights with glue and sewing machines), and how thrilled I was to see my “books” after completion. I wrote little stories all the time. And I read like I breathed, every single day, no matter what. I used to read as my Mom drove me home from the library because I couldn’t wait the ten minutes before starting a new book.

It’s been a dream of mine, always, to one day join the secret tribe of Authors. To know their secrets and learn their magic. I wanted to be a famous writer the way other kids wanted to be rock stars. It felt like the same thing.

I grew up just knowing that someday it would happen. Of course it would. I’d have a study, and a pot of tea, and I’d dash off bestseller after bestseller. It seemed formulaic: read the books, learn the nuance, then…fame. Easy.

I somehow, in my child-fantasies, completely missed reality.

I neglected to understand that I had to put in the work. It’s not glamorous to think that a good portion of what you write will be garbage, and it’s hard as hell to accept that and still come back the next day. I refused to accept anything less than perfection. Instead I dabbled, kicking ass at English and penning little stories here and there, just enough for the occasional ego boost. I was sure that some day the gate would be opened and I’d somehow just stumble upon The Truth.

I have, now.

Authors are people who buckle down and actually write. They’re (WE’RE) “Writers” because that’s what we do. We write. There is no secret. You don’t need permission, or approval. Anyone can do it, to some varying degree. Pick up a pen, open a laptop, and spill your story. It’s not mystical, or arcane.

It’s work. It’s the potential for rejection. It’s the sobering reality that I may never make a living at this. It’s the fact that the thing won’t write itself, and it’s up to me to carve out the time to make it happen. It’s knowing that I’m surrounded by peers who have been in the publishing game already for years. It’s reading articles by and about people who make enough to get by, by their words alone, and feeling hopeful and distraught at the same time.

It’s coming to terms with the fact that it seems like everyone is writing these days, and I’m a tiny fish in their immense pond. There’s no real path to take, no markers that show me what to do next. But I’ll keep swimming against the current, working harder, so someday, someday I might reach my goal.

Movie Monday: Don’t Open Till Christmas

Stefanie Snider

I thought I’d get a little festive.

This came from one of my Mill Creek collections (Drive In Movie Classics) and is presented in glorious VHS-redubbed quality. There will be spoilers in this review, so if you want to keep this magnificent film’s artistic integrity intact, you might want to come back another day.

Let’s start from the beginning: creepy mouth-breather sneaking up on a couple making out in a car. The male of the pair has just gotten off his job as a back-alley Santa, which seems to be the schtick in this movie. I’ve never been to England, but here in Canada our Santas sit in malls instead of roasting chestnuts in dank cobbled laneways.

Anyway, our mouth-breathing friend goes all stabby, then suddenly we’re at a costume party (?) where the next Santa gets shanked with what amounts to a homemade javelin.

The news reports on the trend of Santa-murder, but that doesn’t stop anyone from wearing the exact same bad Santa costume and parading through circuses and weird sex dungeons. Yep, you read that right.

There follow a series of murders, and mandatory female nudity, including one woman who goes outside wearing nothing but a Santa cape. Our villain finds her, but upon discovering she’s female, leaves her.

I mean, he has standards.

Our Santas run around being drunk and getting up to debauchery.

This one’s at a peepshow: “I’d like to have you sitting on my knee.”

Then one stumbles into a music video? I don’t even know.

Meanwhile, our heroine (whose name I don’t recall, because I was simultaneously reading Memebase so enthralled with the plot) is trying to get over the murder of her father. She accomplishes this by busking in the street with her asshole boyfriend, who seems remarkably unphased by the murders. Ooooh, is he the killer? Wait for what feels like ten more years to find out!

Blah blah more murders, more nudity, then BAM! Knife in a shoe!

Crafty.

Yet men still keep dressing up in the same horrible Santa costume, and keep getting picked off.

It’s exactly what you think it is.

Our psycho goes slinking around acting generally sketchy.

He looks perfectly sane. Really.

Pretty well everyone dies, which is about right for a schlocky horror. But what, might you ask, made our psycho hate Christmas so much? Could it have been, say, a traumatic childhood incident?

Oh.

The dialogue is alright, it’s the plot and the wooden acting that make it awful.

I haven’t determined a ratings-system for these yet, because frankly I’m hoping all the movies I review will be terrifically cheesy. However:

Watch for: the surprisingly clever killer-killer

Cringe at: the awful soundtrack that plays over every. single. scene.

Guess: what’s in the box. Dun-dun-dunnn…