Write for Yourself or Write to Get Published?

In most writing circles there are only two ways to go, or so “they say”. Write for Yourself, or Write to Get Published. There is also the battle between self-publishing and traditional publishing. But even the self-publishers hope that one day they’ll be picked up by a New York agent. Today, the dream to be famous as a writer has stolen the art of writing. What makes a great writer? What is the art of writing? Is it great plot, character, imagination, imagery and metaphor, or perfect grammar, spelling and a dynamite opening line? Is it all subjective? Is the bottom line of publishing what will sell to the general public? Is it all hit or miss? Does anyone really know what the general public wants? Or has the general public been told so long what it is supposed to want that it has lost its way? No offense to the general public whoever you are.

What writer doesn't want to get published? I haven't a clue...and what writer doesn't write for themselves? I don't know why this myth has circulated, but it is part of the Mad Hatters journey in the writing world. Jump into Alice's Writing Universe and Write the Wave; fall into the maze of dos, don'ts, have-to's and your opening line just doesn't grab me. "They say," even Hemmingway wouldn't get published today. "They say," If you master a genre, know the formula then you’ve secured both your guns in the holster and can shoot your way into an agent's heart. Maybe. But don't stray from the path of the known guys. Don’t write anything that is channeled or crazy, like dancing violins that have no plot, or characters that stumble around on a LSD trip with no beginning, middle and end. If you do anything outside of the lines or make anyone too uncomfortable you might get a pie in your face. In order to get published you BETTER know the craft of writing, which can take the rest of your life to learn, and then some. Everyone has an opinion about what makes you a crafted and talented writer. One editor loved a prologue I wrote and another advised me to ditch it. Another editor told me my writing is too dark, and wouldn't edit it (even though I was willing to pay her $1,400 for her services) because the story was about abuse. Most of the agents who requested a submission rejected me and said, I am a good writer, but they are not compelled by the story, or they wouldn't know how to sell the story because it was unusual. What is so unusual about a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, abused by her mother who talks to Mary Magdalene throughout her life and rejects her higher guidance? I don't know? And aren't main characters in novels supposed to be unusual?

There are literally hundreds of "experts" who want to sell you on how to be get published, craft a breakthrough novel and follow a step by step approach to building the plot and character. “They say,” pay your dues, be tough, and don’t take it personally. In writer’s groups the theory is write something new, move on, just keep going and don’t look back. It is true that persistence, patience and deep belief is all part of the being a writer, but do I have to become a writing machine, hard as nails? How does this nourish ones’ heart and soul as an artist? Regardless, Ruby, keeps calling to me. She is main protagonist in every novel. Only her name changes; Her name was Sasha in my first draft living in Russian/Poland; Samara was her name in my second draft living during ancient Mesopotamia times. She has traveled many lives teaching me many things. Presently, she is Ruby a Jewish rebel, born in Brooklyn during the 1950's, scarred by a borderline mother and influenced by the onset of sex-drugs and lies. She never leaves me alone. Maybe I am writing sequels, a saga, or maybe I am just nuts. Didn’t J.K Rowling write seven novels about one boy called Harry Potter?

I taught six years in the educational system when it suddenly became fixated on standardized scores. How much information could a student memorize or spit back. Education wasn't about love of learning or even teaching a student to think for themselves. It was about achieving the right number to prove that you learned the necessary work, and then get into a good college, get a good job and make tons of money. The writing business has taken a similar approach to writing a good novel, get the right scores (craft or formula) and you too can win the heart of an agent/ publisher and wind up a best seller. Maybe. I am not saying there aren't great novels out there. I am reading one right now, Pat Conroy's Beach Music. I am just trying to figure this whole game out.

When my daughter was in the third grade she came home with a ditto of different pictures. The assignment was to recognize the beginning consonant of each picture. She would have had a perfect score if it wasn't for the picture of the rabbit. My daughter thought it was a bunny and wrote B for the beginning consonant. There was a big red X stamped across the letter. I made an appointment to conference with the teacher and she said that the right answer was R because it is a rabbit. I complained back pointing out, “There isn't always one right answer, aren't you teaching children how to think?" She replied. "No I'm teaching them to get high scores on the standardized tests." Moral? You figure it out. What does this have to do with writing? I agree that it is mandatory to learn the craft of writing, but that is only the beginning. Do I learn the craft for publishing reasons and write the R for rabbit. Or do I write a B for bunny and break rules because of my love of writing? Will that somehow lead me to an audience or an agent that loves my writing as well? I am not sure which comes first anymore, the chicken or the egg. Like they say, "too much information" I am leaving to go to my right brain now, where there are no lines to color in, only a blank slate.

Today I am going to write about Ruby's hair, so I won't tear out my own. Will I ever get published? Or will any of you out there respond to me and want to get to know Ruby as much as I do? By the way, I’ve decided to get closer to Ruby. I have been writing her story in third person personal. I felt detached from Ruby in this POV. I wanted more intimacy with her. So now, I am writing from first person point of view. Am I co-dependent with Ruby? Could be. Oh, that was another rule I was told, as a first time novelist don't write in first person or multiple points of view. However, my need to feel and breathe through Ruby far surpasses that warning. I am going to dive even deeper into her thoughts and feelings and I can only do that in first person. At some point I'll give you a sample of both POV's and you can tell me what you think. Thanks to anyone who is listening. I will also be continuing my writer's prayer journey and you will dive deeper into my subconscious...I'm past all shame.

Ruby’s hair
Where do I start to tell her story?

The process of writing is intimate and sensual. It is a marriage between the heart, soul and imagination.

Mounds of curls, circle around her neck and shoulders like vines twisting around an Oak.

The sun hits the tips and it absorbs the heat so the smell of sun sprays through it.

She wants to tame this wild tigress of hair, and when she does it is thick, shiny and full like a tulip bulb. It hugs her cheeks and shoulders and she barely sees through the wall of bangs that touch her eyelids

She pulls it up, tightens it in a knot, ties it in a pony when she runs, but it always falls out of the band, its sleek thickness fights the conservative way it constricts movement, and her hair wants to fly free in the wind.

Its flaming dark night hues explodes with wisps of auburn and draws you. you want touch it ever so gently in fear that it will bite off your fingers….it has a life of its own….its own direction, its own thought, a multi-dimensional maze layered with ringlets and bounce.

At times it is too much trouble to wash and the smell of dried apricots with a tint of grease emanates from her scalp. She doesn’t care if it looks like a ball of waxy frizz and allows it to create a jungle of broken bumps of hair that only a strong steel brush can wack its way through.

I love Ruby's hair... but she thinks it is the hair from hell.

Two unnamed pieces by Marta Luzim

Prompt: First line of Evan Boland’s poem Pomegranate
"The only legend I have ever loved is the story of a daughter lost in hell”

Hell of Blood Kin
Hell greater than the fire and brimstone of Satan's hell
The real hell. I want to vomit
I won't find the tenderness in the thorn of self-hatred
that is hell
I feel my stomach cringe, shutting out all the sick, dark, shit.
I'm not supposed to feel ever again.
bury it under the stench sweat and pretty smiles and laughter
Who will Save me?
What is it like to be saved from hell?
Do I just travel on tip toe around the grime
I swim in the sea of the devil
No one cares about a person's hell
No one wants to know that there is a hell
After all isn't God only love?
I had to fight my way out of hell
a fallen angel, Lucifer's handmaiden
Even when love came knocking at my at my door
I spit at it.
Hell was so much more juicy, honest and silky
What makes hell seem so intoxicating, inviting
than the love of kindness?
and yet, kindness is exactly what hell needs
To knife and slit my wrists
and for the blood to be caught
on butterflies wings
It makes no sense the attraction of love and hate
immoral and moral
too many paradoxes


Prompt: First line of Rainer Marie Rilke's poem The First Elegy
“Who if I cried out would hear me among the angelic order”

It's a lie
all a lie
This world of lost nirvana
Where are the angels?
Their wings flapping against the wind
I hate this ethereal poetic upliftment of music, dance
A frenzy that shakes and screams.
I kick it, Shut UP!
I don't want to hear this
My stomach is sick from listening to angels talk of Love
Love like a Norman Rockwell fairytale
two children, two car garage, dogs playing on the lawn, peeing
What is that kind of love?
It is a lie
a picture, a snapshot
and yet, to love the guts of another
the real belly love that melts the heart
and wobbles the knees
not this dysfunctional, caretaking, knotted up love that
fills the void of nothingness
a nothingness that has to be broken
into tiny pieces to find the one spark of true love
what are the angels anyway?
sitting high on their self-righteous thrones
watching this stupid human race run after their tails
trying to find this elusive love in Malls and supermarkets
this Love can only be found in the dehydrated body of a lost soul
in the middle of a desert
screaming to be saved from herself.

Heaven and Hell

My journey to find my voice, my Source of my writing has reached a place where my resistance is a wall of abyss. I want to run from this dark place that reminds me of all the pain in the world. I wander inside of my heart and beg on all fours, praying to know what to do with my novel. The challenge of struggling through the unknown, the place where we know nothing…where we question everything is like diving into the waterfall. Splash! Down below the void. Why do I want to go there?