Belletrinsic

With all of the talk of Best Books of the Year, Best Books of the Decade, Best Books of the Century, I thought it would be interesting to reflect on publishing as it was ten years ago. I’ll refrain from analyzing for the moment and instead let you see how much things have changed in a decade and (arguably) a century.

Below are various topics that have had a large impact on publishing over the last decade. Visit the links to see just how much some of these areas have changed since 1999.

Harry Potter

Twilight

Oprah Book Club

e-books

electronic rights/royalties

e-book readers

drm

iPhone

POD

Scribd

Amazon

Google Book Settlement

IndieBound [Number of ABA members: 5,200 (1991) -> 3,300 (1998) -> 1,200 (2009)]

newspaper book sections

Twitter

book trailers

How have changes in the publishing industry affected you and your work?

(I’ll chime in with my thoughts next week.)

Good fiction is, at its heart, about truth. Some may disagree with this statement, but think about it for a moment. The books and characters that resonate with us most deeply as readers and humans speak to us on a level that is hard to describe. They tell us something about ourselves and the world around us.

Some of the things they tell us aren’t nice. They can be unpleasant and downright uncomfortable. But if the writer is being true to the story and characters, she is writing exactly what those characters would do and say.

There’s a saying common among writers: Write what you know. Okay, so if I followed this strictly, I could only write realistic fiction about a 28-year-old single Mormon woman. That would be fine if I were writing a memoir. But I’m not.

The thing about writers—the best ones, the ones who create the most believable worlds, whether realistic or fantasy—is that they imagine. Their minds are filled with what-ifs. They see a situation, hear a story, notice a person, and their mind takes them down a long road of “what if this person … ”

Now these writers, they imagine a lot of things. Some of those things continue the story and keep it moving forward. But sometimes writers must stop and ask themselves deeper questions. If I write this, people may get upset and ban my book. Am I willing to accept that? Should I tone this down and write it so no one would get upset? Would my character really, honestly, truly act this way?

Swinging around to where we started, we have to stick to truth when we write, truth at its most basic. We have to accurately portray the world of these characters and write them honestly.

My biggest frustration with books is when a heroine does something so completely out of character that the entire story feels false. When a story ends in a way that doesn’t feel right. I’m not referring to “right” in the moral sense of the word, but “right” in the sense that the story doesn’t ring true, isn’t true to the people in it. The book could have been absolutely perfect up to that point, but then that moment comes when the writer messes it all up. The character says or does something alien to their nature, so the entire book feels false and unrealistic.

I see this happening when the writer doesn’t really know who her characters are. She hasn’t delved enough into their psyche. But this can also happen with the writer comes to that point in the story—that pivotal moment when one action or word changes everything—and they take the easy way out. They back off, pull back, and make everything better. Or they throw in violence, sex, something so sensational that it’s sure to cause tongues to wag. In either case, they have committed the fatal error of not being true to the characters or the story. They took the easy way out.

Now let me explain what precipitated this entire thought process.

I don’t swear. I don’t drink, do drugs, sleep around. I’m the quintessential “good girl.” I don’t say this to brag in any way, but to explain. I don’t do any of those things, but some of the characters I write do. In the book I’m currently writing, none of the characters would be considered “good” girls.

These girls, well, they swear. I shied away from it for quite a while, tried to phrase things in a way that would tiptoe around it. Then I realized that I wasn’t being true to these girls I’m writing. Their lives are so different from my experience and my life, but when I imagine these girls, I can see and hear and know them. They are in difficult situations and they don’t always keep their language clean. They have made choices and taken actions I would never even consider. But they have.

Some people may well be disappointed in my choice to write about characters in these situations without lambasting them and their actions. I’m neither condoning nor condemning them, but whatever my personal views, I have to be true to these girls or I would be the one lying.

Everything is not clean and easy with this book. I’ve already bawled my eyes out while writing, and I’m only a third of the way into the manuscript. I’ve had to confront some really tough emotions and thoughts because these girls do. I wanted to take the easy way with this story, but the girls wouldn’t let me. I was lying to them and myself. Now that I’ve realized this, I understand these girls so much better. Now I can tell their story honestly and truly.

I have a confession to make. I read children’s books—and I like it. I also have a penchant for fantasy and—dare I say it?—romance novels.

Whew! Now that I’ve got that off my chest, let me explain.

When I was younger, my dad pushed me to read at a higher level than all of my peers. In the fourth grade I was given a reading list of literary classics that I was supposed to read. Titles on the list were at least high school level, though many were college material. (Those I remember included Huckleberry Finn, Johnathan Livingston Seagull, Man’s Search for Meaning, Brave New World.)

As you might suppose, I balked at being forced to read certain books because my dad said so. It wasn’t that I couldn’t read those books at that age since I’ve always been an advanced reader; it was more that I wasn’t allowed to choose the books I wanted to read. Plus, I was forbidden to read the popular series for my age group: Sweet Valley High, The Babysitters’ Club. So publicly I read his books, but at school and in secret, I read what I wanted to read.

Years later, I still felt the stigma of reading children’s books or those not considered serious literature. Fantasy, romance, and science fiction were frowned upon, though my mother was a devoted reader of all three. But since I showed such promise in school and reading, I wasn’t given the choice.

And then came an epiphany. Right before I graduated from college, I realized that I can read whatever I want, and no one has the right to judge me for it. If I want to browse the children’s section to revisit the stories I deeply loved as a girl, I can. If I want to pick up a purely escapist fantasy novel, I can. And if I want to submerge myself in a story solely involving romance, I can. No one has the right to tell me what I can and can’t read.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love literary fiction, classics, and poetry. I often delve into them and enjoy it. But I take umbrage at the implication that I was less of a reader and wasting my time by reading fluff. I’m now at the point where I love reading all kinds of books and share recommendations for books encompassing all genres—without feeling guilty.

I don’t worry anymore about people giving me weird looks when I buy children’s books for myself. It still happens, but I don’t worry about it anymore. Instead, I feel sorry that they’ve limited themselves to “proper” or “adult” books. They are missing out on some of the most beautiful and poetic stories I’ve ever read. What does it matter who the intended audience is so long as the book is engaging, well-told, or just pure fun? It doesn’t, so enjoy whatever books you will without embarrassment. Reading is reading, and that’s the most important part.

*Disclaimer: My dad isn’t a bad person, but he did make a lot of mistakes doing what he thought was best for his children. He has since relaxed his stance and even encourages me in writing for young adults.

I thought I’d compile a list of my favorite books that have been banned at one point or another. (There is no rhyme or reason to the order.)

• The Awakening by Kate Chopin
• The Giver by Lois Lowry
• Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling
• Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred D. Taylor
• A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
• Grimm’s Fairytales
• several books by Roald Dahl
• Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare
• Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White
• Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut

Now tell me: What are some of your favorite banned books?

(Here’s where you can find some lists of banned books: http://www.abffe.com/bbw-booklist.htm ; http://www.adlerbooks.com/banned.html ; http://www.ala.org/ala/issuesadvocacy/banned/index.cfm)

Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. The earth shook with the roar of the heavens. No one would see her, shadow that she was, slinking along the abandoned street. Time to bury the thing and be done with it. Already it had caused more trouble than she cared for. A little trouble at times weren’t no problem. When that trouble took on life and opened its gaping jaws to swallow her down to hell, well, that was a tad much.

She weren’t no fool neither. Jessamine had all the smarts an urchin could gather. She knowed she was a pawn. Those big men could tell her sweet things till their tongues rotted, but she knew better. They lied, all the time. She weren’t no beauty, no matter what they said, just some street kid they plucked out of them filthy gutters like a rotting tomato. And they didn’t even come find her themselves. Sent some retarded lackeys to do the job for them. Why, even them priests with their visions and prophecies wouldn’t step down the street they dreamed ’bout.

Breath fogged in front of her petite nose as she peered around the corner of a crumbling building. Guards stood watch at the city gates, probably told to keep her inside. Well, them soldiers was dumber than dishwater. Couldn’t be helped, with such little pay. But it made sneaking around the city that much easier for her and her mates.

Those crummy boys hadn’t stood their ground, though, when them soldiers came rushing up to grab her all those weeks ago. Musta figured she was done for with all them swords a pointing at her little head. Couldn’t even find them tonight in their usual haunts when she’d looked. She’d just have to leave the city on her own, no help from anyone. She didn’t need no help, though. How many times she snuck past them foolish guards? Too many to count, considering she didn’t know her numbers so well.

Her chance to slip past came when watch changed for the night. Two sauntered off to greet replacements, the fools, leaving their backs open. Jessamine stole quick to the gate and slipped through the shadows as more lightning lit the sky. Holding her breath, she waited for the blinding light to leave her eyes. Seconds later, the echoing pound of thunder covered the sound of her feet thudding across the bridge.

Her kifed boots touched dirt on the other side while she paused to get her bearings, what with white spots dancing across her vision. Wind whipped long brown hair about her head as she spotted a grove off to her right. Perfect. She would bury the blasted necklace there. No use carrying the thing about her neck longer than she must, and then she’d be on her merry little way. Running for the trees, her stolen servants rags twisted about her legs in all that wind. Her hand closed about the bauble bouncing furiously on her chest. She dropped to her knees, ready to pull that thing off and thrust it into the ground, when lightning crashed and thunder boomed in unison.

All that light rushed straight to the ground in front of her where she’d wanted to plant the durned necklace. Instead of ridding herself of the thing, the metal chain fused securely around her neck with all that energy flowing around her.

“Aw, sh—” The world went black as a tree limb fell atop her pretty little head.

———

“Jasmine. Lady Jasmine.” Cold and water dripped down her face, getting her wet.

“T’aint my name.” Groggy, she tried to sit up, but firm hands pushed her back down. “Get that blasted rag off my face, you putrid—”

“My lady! That is no way to address your servants.” The chamberlain bustled about the room, shooing servants out.

“And I’m not ‘Your lady.’ Never been no lady, won’t never be one. Might as well throw me out on the street again for all the ‘Lady’ I’ll ever be.”

“Now, dear Lady, we’ve been over this. The priests saw you wearing the Jasmine Pendant in a vision of light. They saw the glory of your countenance beneath the filth in which you lived. It was they who brought you to us, the future savior of our kingdom. Who else is to rescue the captured prince and avenge our slain king?”

“Lay that ‘savior’ crap on me one more time and I’m likely to bring my dinner up all over your fancy little robe.” Jessamine pushed aside the serving girl and tried to sit up. Her head wobbled on her neck, and she fell against them soft pieces of fluff they called pillows. What had happened to her? She tried to ask when the chamberlain shushed her again.

“Sleep, Lady Jasmine. We’ll speak more after you’ve rested.”

“Sleep, my eye. Tell me now or I’ll wake the whole castle. You know I will.”

His face looked weary, but he sat on a chair beside the bed. “The guards found you at the foot of a tree struck by lightning. They say you were filled with the light of heaven though you were not burned. Not a hair on your head was singed.” He paused.

“Say it, or I scream,” Jessamine threatened.

“The pendant. We are, ah, unable to remove it from around your Lady’s neck. It seems the lightning fused it to your person and it is now permanently part of you.”

Jessamine gasped. Filthy liar! They’ve tried to make her wear that blasted thing at every moment, and now he says she can never take it off? They’ll see. Why she’ll . . . She felt about her neck and couldn’t locate the chain. How could he say it was there when it wasn’t?

Anger filled her face at his lies—until he brought up a mirror in front of her face that a servant had brought over from the dressing table. There, about her neck, was a delicate silver line that looked so much like the necklace tattooed upon her skin. Then right above the hemline of the nightdress she could see the white starburst of the flower pendant upon her pale skin. White as death it was. Her face paled to match, but still the outline was still clear.

She grasped for it, felt along her skin, but it was smooth as the day she was born. No bumps, no depression. It was as thought she was born with a horrid birthmark.

Those horrid priests had done this to her, cursed her for life. She would be their pawn for the rest of her days, unable to hide their mark upon her. Jessamine never should have stolen the necklace from that old crone. How could she have been so stupid?