Kafka's Metamorphosis

Here's an excellent biographical overview of Franz Kafka's life and work. 

Defining Kafkaesque... 

And, this is just for fun... 

Franz Kafka's It's a Wonderful life

Does It Get Easier?

Right ow the answer is: No. Writing does not get easier.

For me, at least, writing is like exercise. The more you do it, the stronger you become. However, if you pause from your daily exercise/writing... Then it's going to be hard to get back into the process, and the more you put off the process, the harder it becomes.

Publishing doesn't seem to get easier either. (That's not exactly true... But first let me tell you what's truthful about that statement.)

I have written over thirty plays now... But that doesn't mean that publishing companies are saying yes to everything I write for them. If they don't think one of my plays will sell, they won't offer me a contract, plain and simple. And I've noticed that if I let a long stretch of time go by between my plays, then I'm not on the forefront of the editor's mind. They might not get back to me as quickly as they did.

Writing and selling books doesn't get easier. Before I was a published author, I day dreamed that I would be visiting the offices of my editors on a weekly basis, and that we would have lunch and chat about upcoming projects. Nope. That was just a daydream. It might happen someday... But right ow I am still in the trenches. I am still only as good as my last submission. And that's actually not a bad thing. In fact, it's a very good thing. It's just not an easy thing.

but in honesty, selling my work has gotten easier over the years. I have made contacts. i have an awesomely amazing agent. I have editors who are looking forward to seeing future manuscripts. My life as a writer is far more industrious than my clueless 20s. So, I am blessed to have doors open to me (maybe not open wide, but at least I have my proverbial foot in the door.)

Which reminds me...

I am about to become a mentor. I am going to work with a fellow SCBWI member, and hopefully, I will be able to make one writer's life just a little bit easier. Cross your fingers for the both of us!

March Is Feisty Month

If February is a month in which we fall off the wagon of life, March is a time for us to pick our selves up, dust our selves off, and give the middle finger to the horse who gave us the trouble in the first place.

My old roommate and best friend, Joshua, came up with the concept of Feisty Month. This is thirty days of moxy, gumption, and a gungho attitude.

This month I am already exercising more, creating more, and grading more papers (in an expedient manner).

Whatever your 2018 goals are, I hope that you will redouble your efforts and join me on a quest for feistiness.

February Was Quicksand

My January was so productive. But this month is sludge. A ton of essays have sloshed upon my desk, and I've focused on work instead of creativity. I let this happen despite my resolution to balance my teaching/grading with my books/plays. 

So now it's time to urge myself back into some sort of artistic routine. I was telling my Creative Writing students about how writing on a daily basis is a lot like exercising on a daily basis. If you stop exercising for a week -- or a month -- starting back up again can feel excruciating. For me, it is the same with writing. 

So, I'm going to start again by working on some smaller projects first. I'm talking picture books and chapter books. i do want to finish my time travel middle grade novel. However, because my energy levels will probably be depleted from grading these essays, I might not return to the book until after spring break.

I hope your artistic world is more industrious than mine right now. And if it's not, then let's cheer each other on as we try to drag ourselves out of this quicksand known as February. 

Henrik Ibsen: Master of Muttonchops

You have to admire a man who tries out a wild hairstyle in his youth...

And then full-on commits to it throughout old-age.

Bless you, Henrik Ibsen. Bless you and your magnificent muttonchops!

I Guess It's That Time of Year

Yes, it's essay grading season, once again. All weekend long I have been keeping my nose to the proverbial grindstone, grading as many papers as my little brain can handle. But deep down, what i really want to do is this...

My Favorite Russian: Anton Chekhov

What I love most about the work of Anton Chekhov is that two people can read the same Chekhov story, and one reader may burst into tears while the other giggles uncontrollably. He mixes playfulness and sorrow so well, it's hard to tell how to interpret his plays and stories, and that's part of the fun.

Born in 1860, Anton Chekhov grew up in the Russian town of Taganrog. He spent much of his childhood quietly sitting in his father's fledgling grocery store. He watched the customers and listened to their gossip, their hopes, and their complaints. Early on, he learned to observe the everyday lives of humans. His ability to listen would become one of his most valuable skills as a storyteller.

 

(He was the third child out of six...) 

Despite economic hardship, Chekhov was a talented student. In 1879, he left Taganrog to attend medical school in Moscow. At this time, he felt the pressure of being the head of the household. His father was no longer earning a living. Chekhov needed a way to make money without abandoning school. Writing stories provided a solution.

Chekhov the Playwright: 

In 1896 The Seagull received a disastrous response on opening night. The audience actually booed during the first act. Fortunately, innovative directors Konstantin Stanislavski and Vladimir Nemirovich-Danechenko believed in Chekhov's work.

Their new approach to drama invigorated audiences. The Moscow Art Theatre restaged The Seagull and created a triumphant crowd-pleaser. Soon after, the Moscow Art Theatre, led by Stanislavski and Nemirovich-Danechenko, produced the rest of Chekhov's masterpieces: Uncle Vanya, Three Sisters, and The Cherry Orchard.


Happy Valentine's Day -- Love, Anton!

The Russian storyteller played with themes of romance and marriage, but throughout most of his life he did not take love seriously.

He had occasional affairs, but he did not fall in love until he met Olga Knipper, an up-and-coming Russian actress. They were very discreetly married in 1901.

Olga not only starred in Chekhov's plays, she also deeply understood them. More than anyone in Chekhov's circle, she interpreted the subtle meanings within the plays. For example, Stanislavski thought The Cherry Orchard was a "tragedy of Russian life." Olga instead knew that Chekhov intended it to be a "gay comedy," one that almost touched upon farce.