Tag: career

Dreams Take Time…And Cash.

Stefanie Snider

I’m in the midst of developing a Grand Five-Year Plan. It has glorious secrets, some of which I can’t reveal yet, but it also involves regular stuff like moving into a better house and having more money in the bank.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how it will all come together. The number one, very-most-important thing I need to work on is saving more money. For a number of my plans to come to fruition, we’ll need a sizable cushion in the bank. And I can’t count on us making more money for a while, so it’s all about budgeting and spending less.

I use Quicken already when I remember to. It’s moderately helpful, considering I don’t use half the widgets. The pie charts are pretty, though.

We use debit for most purchases. Debit isn’t necessarily the best move, because it lets you access your whole bank account ALL THE TIME, but at least it’s trackable when I remember to read the statements.

We’ve been getting better about the little things, like buying less drive-through coffee, but I still feel an unholy consumer lust when I see things like this.

Obviously, I need to get my financial shit together. And, being a word-person who can’t math, I’ll be diving into books for help. (Have any recommendations? I’d love to hear them.)

In the meantime I found some great blogs and websites that are geared to us artsy folks.

Writing a Novel? Cool Story, Bro.

Stefanie Snider

Since I mentioned starting to write a novel, I’ve had mixed response from people I know. Most have been supportive, as I knew they would.

A few, though, have been a little skeptical. No one’s said it, of course. But there’s a certain look in the eye, a certain…pause…before saying anything, that gives it away.

I can see why.

Writing a novel seems to be one of those things that people say they’d like to do someday. I’d say a majority of people feel, at one time or another, that they could write a book. Most people say it, but most never do it.

Which brings me to the skeptics in my life. Because I’ve announced my intentions of “one day” making a living at writing, I can see how that might be mistaken for the same wistfulness that plagues so many wannabe novelists. Most people who have “one day”s sit back and wait for it to happen. “One day” I’ll run in that marathon. “One day” I’ll ask that guy out. They don’t make any concrete move toward their goals.

I say “one day” because there are so many variables. I can’t make someone like my work. I can’t make them buy it. And if no one buys it, it will never pay the bills. That’s life. I say “one day” because there’s no way for me to set an exact timeline for when I’ll be able to make writing my only job.

All I can do is fulfill my side of the contract. I can only control my output. I have to write, every day, no matter what, if there’s any hope of making it. I have to get better with every story, because it’s my job not to disappoint the reader. I have to bust my ass to make this novel the best I can. And the novel after that. And the one after that. Then I have to get my stuff out there, get people to see it, and hope like hell they like it.

Whether or not my “one day” ever comes rests squarely on my shoulders, and if I don’t work for it it never will.

(This post was inspired by someone who demanded I recruit followers for their writing instead of doing any work themselves. It doesn’t work like that. Sorry, Bro.)

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?

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.

Writer’s Rooms

Stefanie Snider

After yesterday’s Bag of Bones post, I got to thinking about the act of writing. It thrills me to see a character who is a writer, because other than the people pecking away at their laptops in coffee shops all over, writing is a very private act. It’s not featured much at all in movies or on tv. It happens behind the scenes. You’d no more stumble on a writer at work than you’d walk into someone’s house uninvited.

But what if you were invited, welcomed even, to see the spaces where writers tuck themselves away? Would you notice some common link, some talisman that summons the Muses?

I’m not the only one hoping to tap the magic (and be a nosy little snoop while I’m at it); The Guardian offers a whole series of peeks into the most private spaces of authors.

Have a look.

Where it All Began

Stefanie Snider

My love of horror began with my Mom.

Which is funny, because if you know her, you’ll know that watching a horror movie is the absolute last thing she would ever consider doing. The fact that I grew to love gore and guts still unsettles her: “Whose kid ARE you, anyway?”

It began with my Mom, because she bought me an issue of Seventeen magazine.

To my ten-year-old self, Seventeen was an impossibly cool magazine. It was clearly for older girls. It talked about kissing! and boys! and tampons! I felt cool just having one in my possession.

Somewhere in there (I don’t remember the issue), one of the little quizzes mentioned having a Stephen King book on your nightstand. I think if you picked that option, you were “edgy” or something. And I desperately wanted to be edgy. I begged for a King book.

My parents were both the sensibly-permissive type: I wasn’t allowed out past dark, but they’d let me watch a scary movie as long as I promised I knew the monsters were people in costumes. I promised, and I promised also that if they bought me this “grown-up book” I’d be fine. It’s just words. What’s to be scared of?

Dad bought me Misery. I was smugly proud of myself. Not only was I going to read an adult book, but it was a scary adult book. I would prove not only my reading aptitude, but my incredible fearlessness. Besides, the language was easy enough for a bookish kid.

I zipped along, grimacing here and there, knowing that Annie Wilkes was very bad news, but still gleeful that I was getting away with adult behaviour. Being the little asshole I was, I made sure all my classmates saw me pull out the novel during Reading Time.

It was during this quiet time that I reached The Part With The Mouse.

If you’ve not read it, this scene has the captive hero locked in the basement of the madwoman Annie. He’s been starving, and, I’m pretty sure, drinking his own urine to survive. Annie comes to see him, and she’s all nutty and angry, and she scoops up the mouse that’s been running around the cellar. Then she squeezes it til its eyes burst and licks the blood off her fingers.

I almost lost it, right there. If it weren’t for a room full of my mean-spirited little friends, I would have cried and wet myself.

But I didn’t. I maintained. I also didn’t tell my parents that I stayed awake for what felt like weeks, petrified that Annie Wilkes was coming up the stairs with her sledgehammer.

She never did, and I came to realize that the little jolt of terror was a rush. How much could I handle?

The thrill never went away. And now, writing horror stories, I want to scare you too. It’s a fun little kick. Perfectly safe.

Well, mostly. As long as you keep the lights on, and listen for those little noises that follow you in the dark…