Averil Dean

Gotham

Averil Dean — Thu, 23 May 2013 22:44:23 +0000

Photo by Hedi Slimane

Last week I got some help from Mr. Medicine, my heart-throbby anonymous mentor who swoops in occasionally to save me from myself. How he knows when I need him is part of the mystery, but his rescues make me feel like the girl in a superhero movie: Who was that masked man?

What he seems to be teaching me, on these midnight rides through Gotham, is the art of rule-breaking. I tend to approach all kinds of creative work with the mindset of a craftsman rather than that of an artist, by which I mean that I pay a lot of attention to mechanics and I keep a beady eye on the consumer. This is fine, but it does impose a certain rigidity on my work that can be counterproductive.

Not so, this week. I’ve taken Mister’s advice and am rewriting a chapter near the end of my book which I hope will provide a template of sorts, a new way to navigate the story. Already the flow of events is smoother, more intuitive. Loosening up the structure and looking for more effective points of view has had a magical effect on the tension of the scenes. The story seems loaded with fresh possibility.

Writing is always (newsflash!) hard work. But it’s easier when you leave all your options on the table.

What’s your favorite writing rule to break?

Juicy

Averil Dean — Wed, 22 May 2013 03:24:29 +0000

I got with somebody’s date
you’re like a soap opera cover
my lover self-automates
juicy

you say a-somebody say
you’re like salve for a leper
you’re sweet for somebody’s pain
juicy
aw, juicy

yeah, you got to live for your own
you say you got all the sordid details
check out retail
watch it sell
juicy

The Drain

Averil Dean — Mon, 20 May 2013 10:16:52 +0000

A friend of mine sent me this article from The Atlantic, about the ethics of extreme porn and the implications of consent. It’s an interesting discussion of an essay by Emily Witt, which describes the filming of a pornographic video in which a woman is bound, stripped, paraded around and publicly humiliated—all at her own request.

You can read the account for yourself. I’d recommend you go in with an empty stomach and an inquiring mind. (The model is brought to the shoot wearing a sign around her neck: I’M A WORTHLESS CUNT. Things go downhill from there.) Now, while I think we can all agree that a consenting adult in this scenario is better than some horrible non-consensual gang bang, I’m not sure it’s as simple as that. Every expression of consent arises from that individual’s accumulated life experience, from what she understands of her place in the world, from her childhood, upbringing, and relationships, from the media and the internet and the whole stew of societal influences that forms her character. The model in this video may indeed have sprung from the happiest of families and never known a moment of abuse or insecurity—and hell, it’s not outside the bounds of possibility that such a person’s dearest life wish is to be fisted and beaten and spat upon in public. To me it seems unlikely. But who am I to say?

I’m only asking, constantly wondering, how it all comes about. It’s the drain I keep circling, in this book as much as the last. Yet for all the hours I’ve spent exploring the question of sexual perversion on paper and in my own thoughts, I can’t say I’ve ever had a true epiphany on the topic. The human mind is a vast and unfathomable domain.

Do you tend to write about the questions you can’t answer, or the ones on which you’ve formed a definite opinion?

Photo by Ellen Von Unwerth

Candy

Averil Dean — Fri, 17 May 2013 12:53:41 +0000

Many thanks to Indy for leading me to this gem of an article:

Creators do not ask how much time something takes but how much creation it costs. This interview, this letter, this trip to the movies, this dinner with friends, this party, this last day of summer. How much less will I create unless I say “no?” A sketch? A stanza? A paragraph? An experiment? Twenty lines of code? The answer is always the same: “yes” makes less. We do not have enough time as it is. There are groceries to buy, gas tanks to fill, families to love and day jobs to do.

People who create know this. They know the world is all strangers with candy. They know how to say “no” and they know how to suffer the consequences. Charles Dickens, rejecting an invitation from a friend:

“‘It is only half an hour’ — ‘It is only an afternoon’ — ‘It is only an evening,’ people say to me over and over again; but they don’t know that it is impossible to command one’s self sometimes to any stipulated and set disposal of five minutes — or that the mere consciousness of an engagement will sometime worry a whole day … Who ever is devoted to an art must be content to deliver himself wholly up to it, and to find his recompense in it. I am grieved if you suspect me of not wanting to see you, but I can’t help it; I must go in my way whether or no.”

“No” makes us aloof, boring, impolite, unfriendly, selfish, anti-social, uncaring, lonely and an arsenal of other insults. But “no” is the button that keeps us on.

How do you guard your time?

Photo by Ellen Von Unwerth

The Funny

Averil Dean — Thu, 16 May 2013 15:53:54 +0000

Come on, show me the funny.

Edges

Averil Dean — Sun, 12 May 2013 16:10:25 +0000

When I pitched the Blackbird proposal to my agent, one of the first things he said was, That’s ambitious. I didn’t fully appreciate what he meant at the time. The book existed beautifully in my head, ticking backward through time from the murders to the causes, a delicious bite of fucked-up psychology in each chapter along with a through-line of sexual pathos to keep the fuse crackling. It’s a good story. I feel it there still, at the back of my mind. But in trying to pin the words to the page, it’s becoming clear that this back-to-front structure is a sonofabitch. Instead of writing the scenes in order, I find I’m having to take runs at the story by first laying down the current-day action, then working in the subtext as I revise each scene. Later still, I’ll make a third pass to add the back story, which at this point exists only in my head, but which is driving the characters onward (to death and destruction, cause I live for that shit).

What I hope I’ll have when I’m finished is a story that’s structurally complex but easy for the reader to follow. What I have right now is a table full of puzzle pieces, turned every which way, and a rising sense of frustration at how long it’s taking me to assemble the edges.

How do you build the structure? Does it take shape as you write the first draft? Do you begin with an outline? Or do you throw scenes at the wall to see if they stick.

Concept

Averil Dean — Thu, 09 May 2013 13:59:35 +0000

Photo by Ellen Von Unwerth

Yesterday I received an email from my editor. The cover concept for Alice Close Your Eyes is here! I wish I could show you, because I’m freaking out right now. The title will be debossed in huge red letters over a rumpled white bed sheet, my name at the bottom, and the whole thing will be scattered with what looks like shards of broken glass, done with a combination of gloss and embossing. This is one tricked-out motherfucking cover, let me tell you. And MIRA must be thrilled with it, too, because even the galleys are going out with a fully executed cover treatment, embossing and all.

I think this may be my proudest day as a writer. (Well, except for the day August gave this book the thumbs up, when I sat on the floor sobbing for two hours, memorizing his emails.) But the cover is different. The cover is something that was made for me, for the book. It’s the tangible evidence of my editor, pushing hard on my behalf; it’s someone else saying, I get what we’re doing here and I can help. We work so much on our own as writers that it comes as both relief and vindication when a whole team assembles around the project and it begins to take off.

Happy, happy day.

What’s your high-water mark?

Mouse

Averil Dean — Tue, 07 May 2013 14:21:02 +0000

Our friend Laura Maylene Walter has posted a video in which actor Blair Leatherwood reads her work for an event called Stories on Stage. He’s a wonderful reader, and his voice opens the story to a rich new dimension. It gives me a vicarious thrill to imagine what it must be like for Laura to hear her work this way. What a beautiful trip.

I’ve never had this experience. No one has read my words to me, and I’ve never read them to anyone else. I’ve noticed that some writers talk about reading their work as though it’s something to look forward to, part of the experience of publishing, or of attending a workshop or retreat. I can’t really get my mind around it. Public speaking terrifies me, and finding an appropriately non-smutty section of my book to read would be a chore in itself. I have long made up my mind that I can’t do it, won’t do it, will never make the attempt. But I hate the idea of caving to stage fright before I’ve begun, or letting my books down by refusing to get out there and talk about them. I keep reminding myself that other writers manage to get over their fear, that readings and publicity in general are not about me, they’re about trying to connect readers with stories they might enjoy. Surely that’s a benign enough intention. And one squeaky, red-faced spokesperson is better than nothing.

How do you feel about reading your work in public? What do you like to hear from other writers at book-related events?

Hard Drive

Averil Dean — Thu, 02 May 2013 23:55:02 +0000

I’m wedged into my draft at 30K. Everything I write seems shallow and off-putting and juvenile, even the sexy bits, which sound as if they were written by Elizabeth Hasselbeck for Ladies Home Journal. Since when am I afraid to drop a c-bomb?

Why is writerly confidence such a fleeting thing? In the space of an afternoon, I can go from self-congratulatory laps around the living room to gnarled up in the corner at the thought of dying before I can erase this draft from my hard drive. (As if, but for my ongoing vigilance, someone would break in to my computer and steal The Precious away.) Why do we invest so much of our self-worth in these stories, these awful repetitive stories that in the end will probably be read by our mothers and a handful of people who happen to be tuned to the same frequency? Why is it all so fucking important? The top-selling book of all time is crack fiction mommy-porn, in which the POV character carries on a running conversation with her inner goddess while her boyfriend slicks her up with baby oil and swats her bottom with a gray silk tie; do we really think someone’s going to notice that metaphor about the crow on page ninety-four?

Do readers ever read the way we wish they would?

Lacey

Averil Dean — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 15:15:02 +0000

I mentioned a while back that we’ve been on the hunt for new digs. The payment here is too high and we really can’t swing it for the long haul, so I’ve been poring over the rental ads, running hither and yon to find a place we can afford in a neighborhood we’d love as much as this one. A tall order, I have to say, and avoiding the scammers is nine-tenths of the work. But yesterday I drove to Lacey, Washington and found the most wonderful house. It’s actually bigger than our current home, in a lovely old neighborhood with a private beach and a small dock for our non-existent boat. The catch—obviously, there is a catch—is that the inside of the home is scruffy and therefore it has failed to catch a renter’s eye. But yours truly has negotiated new carpets and paint throughout, and a thorough scrub-down which it badly needs. We’ll have to do something ourselves about the linoleum, and I’m dying to take an SOS pad to the cupboards, but the floor plan is great and the yard is huge both front and back, shaded by pine trees and lined with lilac bushes and pink rhododendrons.

This move is a tradeoff, as are so many things in life. It’s not easy to leave Portland, or this neighborhood we love so much. But Seattle is big and beautiful, and it’s where my oldest son wants to settle down. By inching northward, we can help him get his feet on the ground and be close enough to see him often once he does. He’ll be here in a few days, to stay. Our new place will have a bedroom for him, reasonable access to the train into the city, and a terrific new school for the little guy.

We’re aiming to move around the middle of June, and after that I’ll be on to my next project: the job hunt. Walmart greeter? Hamburger flipper? Greeting card saleslady at the local Hallmark store? The possibilities are endless!

What have you found? What are you looking for?

Home sweet home.