The Bitter Quill

Ahem. Did I say four posts a week? Clearly, I meant just one. I’ve been guilty of neglecting this blog for the last few days, and so have the rest of the BQ contributors.

It seems like I only have so many words-a-day in me. I spend all day coding ColdFusion at work — not writing, exactly, but still words on paper — then I come home and write the occasional review, and THEN I research and write a couple of blog posts at the Other Blog. Add all of that up and I don’t have a lot left in me for the Bitter Quill, let alone my other writing projects. I’m prioritizing the writing that actually pays me, but that means that the writing that I actually enjoy suffers.

Any suggestions on how to break the cycle? Maybe an enforced period of BQ-and-ancillary-projects-writing on a regular basis? It’ll be just like when I was a kid my mother would make me memorize my multiplication tables for two hours every Thursday, whether I liked it or not, only now it’ll be me I resent, not her.

I’ve been thinking about Cyn’s recent post about how she writes her life, on her blog and in her fiction. It seems like most of my life goes undocumented. Most of my life doesn’t seem to warrant documenting, however. Does the world really need to know about my compulsive visits to the grocery store or about my altercations with bookstore security personnel? (Don’t worry. Nothing was hurt but my ego.)

Perhaps it’s a lack of writerly confidence. To write fiction, or such types of nonfiction as memoir, seems to require a combination of narcissism and bravery. I think I have the narcissism part covered well enough. I find that I enjoy few people’s company as well as my own.

I also have some bravery. The thing some writers seem to fear the most is a rejection letter, and perhaps I do too. I admit I’ve sent very little material out, but that’s usually because I have none ready. Besides, rejection is better than no response at all. At least that way you know you’re not still sitting at the bottom of the slush pile.

There’s a second kind of bravery, though. The kind that’s willing to present one’s ruminations on the mundane details of life to an audience. Some writers, particularly humorists, have made lucrative careers off of daily minutia. However, it takes a certain kind of confidence to foist such rambles onto the public. I seem to lack that type of bravery (but perhaps it’s just in my closet next to the vacuum I never use).

Fortunately, I don’t believe my affliction is permanent. I’m sure one day the little details of life that have been hiding in the shadows will come forth. Until then, I have the details of biology to write about, and I doubt I will ever exhaust them.

I have decided to end my already-tenuous association with Phillyist, the blog for which I was a writer. I’d like to say that the reasons are many, but really there’s just one: They now require their writers to indemnify them fully against slander and libel charges. What that means is that if someone should sue Phillyist for something that I said, like “Your food made me sick!”, I would be legally and financially responsible.

Now, the editors (disclaimer: One of them, Star Foster, writes for me here at Bitter Quill) assure me that the Gothamist Network (the folks that run all of the “-ist” blogs) management only included that language because of their lawyer, and they will in fact be happy to defend me against any potential legal difficulties that arise. While I don’t doubt the editors’ earnest intentions, I also don’t have great faith in Gothamist’s continued selflessness. If they had no intention of ever leaving me in the lurch, they wouldn’t have included the language in their disclaimer.

On the one hand, I stand by what I write, and accept responsiblity for my own actions. On the other, I’ll be damned if I’ll provide Gothamist with content that helps their network grow, all the while hanging my own neck on the line, for a measly two bucks a post. After all, I’m not exactly always nice in my reviews. The last thing I need is some irate restauranteur with more cash than sanitary kitchen safeguards siccing a pack of suits on me because I write about how his restaurant made me sick in a public forum.

Does this mean that the Cranky Cocktail is dead? Not necessarily. I may revive him at some point in the future — he’s practically begging for his own blog. In the meantime, I’ll be concentrating on my other writing projects, and my other blogging gig.

Hmmm. I wonder if the Phillyist editors (at least two of them read this blog) will link to this post in their regular local blog roundup feature? I think it would be awfully courageous of them if they did.

This site was intended to be as much a personal chronicle of the progress of our writing career as it was to be about writing itself, so with that I have an exciting announcement to make. Well, it’s exciting for me, anyway:

I’ve been offered a real-live writing job. Someone wants me to write for them, and they’re willing to pay me money to do it!

It is (with apologies to Star Foster) a new media job. In other words, I’m being hired as a blogger. No, this won’t replace my day job — the gig is paid, but it’s not that paid. I’m just going to have a little less time to myself after I finish my 9-5 grind. But hot damn, I’m going to be paid to write! The offer has been extended and I’ve accepted, contingent upon seeing the final contract and so forth, so I’m not going to release any details until things are signed, sealed and delivered.

Paid! Writing! Gig! I’m all a-tingle!

I must confess that I don’t know who Deborah Woehr is, but she gets a big thank-you for linking to us anyway!

I found it funny that the evil, mustachioed, get–your–post–in–on–time-or–we’ll– tie–you–to-the-tracks Bitter Quill Powers that Be (else wise known as “Mike”) described me as a “new-media writer” in the introduction to last week’s post. It’s not that the bulk of the writing I do for public consumption these days doesn’t fit that bill — it certainly does — it’s just that in describing the writing I do I’m more apt to use the less formal moniker, “blogger”, because I find the term “new-media” particularly silly (ED: Oi!). There’s nothing “new” about writing. It may not be as old as cave painting or sex or spoken word or dancing, but as methods of communication go, it’s been around a good long while.

What new media blogging has done for writers is create a more egalitarian market in which to flog our wordy-wares. No longer do we need to tie up our lovingly double-spaced bundle of words and count on an editor to recognize our genius. With a push of a button we can take our ground-breaking tales directly to the public at large. And, with additional commenting tools at our (I was going to say “ink-stained” – but that doesn’t really apply in this case…but “keyboard calloused” doesn’t really have the same aesthetic lyricism to it, does it?) fingertips, we can get instant feedback from our audience, so we can hone and tailor or work and give them exactly what they want – and as often as they want it.

Frankly, it feels a bit like cheating to me. When you fantasize about you future writing career (wasting time which, I should like to point out, would have been better spent actually writing), do you dream about your photo on a dustjacket, attending book signings armed with a heavy pen and tweed blazer with leather elbow pads, of discovering your characters either changed someone’s life or featured heavily in their startlingly risqué fanfic (perhaps both), or about spending your time worrying about bloghits and site visitors and troll bashing and your Google Page Rank? Perhaps I’m a short-sighted luddite, unable to grasp that new-media is the wave of the future, or maybe I just give more emotional weight to words I can actually hold in my hand… but I, for one, feel as though I can’t count myself as successful until that byline is printed on paper.
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