True Detective

All posts tagged True Detective

On the critic in your head, and the external critics who try to get in your head.

Published March 14, 2019 by mandileighbean

muppet-critics

 

I’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. The first time I thought I had any real talent, or any real future with writing, was when I was in the third grade (if you can believe it). We had a homework assignment having to do with vocabulary, and I wrote a poem using the entire list of vocabulary words. My mom liked the poem, but made me complete the assignment the exact way the teacher assigned it so I wouldn’t lose credit or get in trouble (good lookin’ out, Ma!). I brought both versions of the assignment to school, and my teacher FREAKED out. He loved the poem and signed me up for a local young author’s conference.

But third grade was FOREVER ago (or at least very much feels that way) and other moments of validation have been few and far between. I did publish a novel, but it was with an incredibly small press and there was no publicity, so I don’t think anyone read it outside of my social network. And they all seemed to like it, but would any of them really tell me otherwise?

And that brings me to the main topic of today’s post:

Ten Obstacles Every New* Writer Faces
(by new, I mean any writer not firmly established)

  1. Self doubt!
    My biggest obstacle, without question, is self doubt. It plagues me every time I write anything at all, and it is a struggle to persevere against the nagging suspicion that I’m no good and people are just nice. I do my best and remind myself I was published and people did enjoy my book and that people do enjoy this blog. I remind myself as often as I can that I am talented, that my writing is worthy of praise, and that I have something important to say.

    I think it’s important to note that even wildly successful, established writers suffer from self doubt. I absolutely adore Nic Pizzolatto’s work. He’s the mastermind behind “True Detective,” the HBO original series. The first season is pretty much universally lauded as a masterpiece, and I agree. I’ve re-watched the first season more times than I care to admit, and I find something else to love about it. It inspired me to read “Galveston” (Pizzolatto’s novel) and “Between Here and the Yellow Sea” (Pizzolatto’s collection of short stories). I highly recommend both, as Pizzolatto tells fresh stories with a love of language. His prose, while dark, is beautiful and cerebral. Hence, I was pumped when the second season of “True Detective” was announced, especially upon learning the cast included Colin Farrell, Rachel McAdams, and Vince Vaughn.

    But the second season is pretty much universally lauded as garbage (though I think history will be kinder than the current climate of critics). There were so many plot lines and so many characters that nothing ever felt authentically fleshed out, and the ending was deeply unsatisfying. I was shocked; how could something so good turn so bad? I did some research, and came across an article that Pizzolatto was deeply affected by the criticisms of the first season and wrote the second season as a response. Instead of guarding his art, he lost his voice.

    I am by no means passing judgement. I doubt I’d operate much differently. So when season three was announced, I was more than skeptical. I had no expectations, really. And boy, was I pleasantly surprised. Season three is a subtle, nuanced narrative that is delicately crafted to expose the many problems that come from the passing of time, failing memories, and the choices people make with no regard for future consequences. I was particularly impressed by Stephen Dorff’s performance and have convinced myself I am in love with him (check out this article). Particularly in the last couple of episodes, Dorff shined and added a human element that was more palpable and tangible than what the main story line had to offer.

    Granted, the third season had definite parallels to the first season, and I suppose it could be argued that Pizzolatto simply reverted back to what worked instead of venturing into new literary territory, but I call bullshit. Good storytelling is good storytelling, in my opinion, and Pizzolatto is a master storyteller. But everyone’s a critic, right? Entertainment Weekly gave the finale a C rating and wrote a hit piece, specifically blasting a heartbreaking scene featuring Dorff. I read it angrily, remembering that scene from season one when Woody Harrelson accuses Matthew McConaughey of shitting on any moment of human decency. Instead, I offer Esquire’s excellent write up of Dorff’s performance, which can be found here.

    But I digress; back to the list.

  2. Naivete!
    When I first seriously started writing, I thought everything would be easy and happen in a predictable pattern. I thought everyone I encountered genuinely believed in me and my talent. However, I have learned the hard way that some people just want to stroke their own egos and make money, and some people have no problem doing that at the expense of a young writer.
  3. It costs money to make money, even as a writer!
    The greatest asset as a writer, other than the obvious necessity of talent, is a professional network. It really helps you get your foot in the door if you know someone. I know no one, so to start making connections and contacts, I began attending conferences, which is really the only way to go. Unfortunately, attending legitimate conferences where you can meet agents and editors and other serious writers costs money. I’ve been to two legitimate conferences, and they cost $3,000 each. That cost does not include travel and lodging and other incidentals, and that can be difficult to manage on an average salary, which leads me right to my next point…
  4. It takes time!
    It takes patience to finish a novel, send it out to agents and publishers, and wait to hear back. But it also takes time to hone the craft, to read and to write. It takes time to travel to conferences. I had to request time off from work for both of the conferences I attended, and I know I am blessed that doing so wasn’t problematic. I’m sure there are some writers, working full-time as something else, who wouldn’t be afforded the same luxury. I realized that writing takes serious time, and needs to be prioritized. I need to start turning down invitations and stay off Candy Crush and social media to get writing done. I have to choose my writing over other obligations, even those that involve my job, because it is my true passion and what I love to do. That’s a daunting commitment, especially when it’s easier to make excuses and not take the risk of pursuing a passion.
  5. Writer’s Block!
    I never thought it would happen to me. I’m bursting with ideas! I’m eager to tell stories! But when I sit down at the computer, sometimes, nothing comes. The cursor just blinks and I just sit there, blinking, and anything I type is deleted because it’s awful. Stress and exhaustion create Writer’s Block, and at times, there is just no avoiding it.
  6. Priorities!
    I won’t repeat myself, as I touched upon this idea in #4, but writing must be a priority. I thought I could have my cake and eat it too, that I could write while having a life. But as I grow older, I realize writing must be a part of my life. I have to do it everyday and pursue agents tenaciously. I can’t put it off and use the excuse that I’m living and experiencing things to enrich my narratives – it can’t be one or the other.
  7. Advice!
    I’m a transcendentalist, so I believe people mean well. When I’m given advice about my writing, whether it be the content or the logistics of getting published, I patiently listen and express my gratitude for the concern and input. But I’ve realized it has to go in one ear and out the other. People are people are people; no two human beings are the same, so no two writers are the same and no two writers are going to have the same exact path to publication. And no two writers are going to have the same art. I’m learning to guard my art, to trust that I know the best way to tell my story, so I’m leery when it comes to advice.
  8. Finding a tribe!
    It’s easier to make writing a space in my life if I talk to and hang out with fellow writers and artists. I recommend finding a writing group, or a book club, or even just one person who will talk shop with you.
  9. Marketing/promoting!
    Writers can often be introverts and have trouble selling themselves and their works. Luckily, I’m an extrovert. I’ll talk to anyone about anything. I’m incredibly friendly. But I don’t know the first thing about promoting a novel. I didn’t do any marketing for my novel because I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know who to ask (and this goes back to naivete). A writer friend of mine has a publisher who’s handling all that for him, and I am so excited for him.
  10. Staying relevant (releasing new material)!
    It takes time to be published, so in between releases, how does a writer stay relevant? This blog is one way, but I want to be able to keep my writing in the spotlight. I’m considering publishing a chapbook of poetry I created using magnetic poetry (I post them on my Instagram, here). Self-publishing costs money, though it may save time, so I’m considering all my options.

Was the list helpful? Was there something I missed? Did you hate season three of “True Detective”? Leave a comment and let’s start a conversation!

On seeking salvation from loneliness.

Published June 30, 2015 by mandileighbean

I know I need to update this blog more than once a month. My writing is becoming stale; my literary muscle is in a state of atrophy due to lack of use. I have no excuse.

I wonder how many writers believed themselves to be prophetic. I don’t mean in the pretentious sense, but in a way that can be validated, where predictions are not obvious or bluntly stated, but hidden beneath authentic literary merit. I mean in the way where plot and reality align too much to be mere coincidence. This topic has piqued my interest as of late because the ending of my second novel Moody Blue – which has yet to find either a literary agent or publisher for representation – ends in nearly the exact same way the real life source of inspiration is ending. It knocked me on my ass, to be sure, and I’m sure this post, with its assertion that I’m some kind of prophet, that all of this is a way to make it romantically tragic instead of just melodramatic and sad. Rather than admit I was fooled and manipulated, it’s grander to say I knew someone so well that I saw what was coming and used it in my writing to heal the wounds. I suppose it was more like seeing the approach of headlights and stepping into the middle of the street anyway because a beautiful, brooding man is on the other side, smiling seductively. As I stepped into the road, I knew that I was never, ever going to reach my desired destination, that I’d end up alone and as so much carnage that others will drive over without much notice, but I did it anyway because that smile made me believe things were changing, and that I just might make it. That smile became an all-purpose excuse for all the stupid, selfish, asinine things I did.

“This is my least favorite life, the one where I am out of my mind. The one where you’re just out of reach. The one where I stay and you fly.” 

But I suppose I’ll be okay.  

“I’m never alone. I’m alone all the time.”

I lead a very lonely life. I used to be ashamed to admit it, but I once heard that some are meant to be happy, while others are mean to be great. Thus, my only means of survival, of staying both sane and optimistic, are believing that everything happens for a reason, and that this is my path, for better or for worse. I must entertain the possibility that where I am destined to end up may not be warm and bright with smiling faces. I might have to be cold and alone to be great, to fulfill my potential. Maybe all the tragedy I’ve spent romanticizing for so long is all mine to keep.

Hell, even Gatsby knew he could only climb alone.

Writing Prompt #23: The figure in a famous painting begins communicating with an art museum patron.

The museum was clearing out. The few presumably pretentious patrons were shuffling towards the exits in shiny, expensive shoes that reflected their pinched faces of their respective owners. They all looked so important, raising the collars of impressive and fashionable coats against the cold, sharp February winds raging outside. The ladies adjusted their gloves to better cover and protect their delicate wrists against the bitter cold, while the gentlemen held the doors open, allowing the ladies to pass through with strong and protective hands on the smalls of their backs. Once outside, facing the elements, these fine, cultured gentlemen enveloped their classy, educated ladies in their arms and together, the pairs scurried to remarkably expensive vehicles, a Lexus there, a Mercedes Benz here, and a few BMWs for good measure. It seemed that everyone at the art gallery was impossibly intelligent, filthy rich, and happily in love. They did not rage against the dying of the light as the sun’s last rays burned bright and fierce through the large picture windows that surrounded the art gallery. It seemed that all were perfectly content to go gentle into the good night because they were not alone. They loved and were loved, and that was all that mattered.

Or maybe that’s just how it seemed to Olivia because she was alone – single and bitter – on Valentine’s Day. After all, wasn’t there some saying about everything looking like a nail when one feels like a hammer?

It had been foolish to venture out into public on the absolute worst of manufactured holidays. Olivia knew her day would be one long and agonizing observation of all kinds of public displays of affection, ranging from sweet (the elderly man who did his best to straighten his fingers gnarled with arthritis only to entwine them with his wife’s as they rode the bus to the city) to obnoxious (the sweaty, nervous-looking man who coordinated a lame, disappointing flash mob as means of proposing to a doughy woman too stupid to know any better and readily accepted) to grotesque (the teenage couple mauling each other while waiting in line at the local coffee shop, covering themselves in each other’s DNA in the disgusting way that only adolescents can). Begrudgingly, Olivia would admit it was the masochist within her that encouraged and eventually convinced her to journey to the art gallery. Later, when the pain began to subside and she was safe in her home, in sweatpants with wine and Chinese food that had been delivered some time ago, she could realize that being surrounded by affection was a good thing, nearly tangible evidence of its existence, that it was real and could happen to anyone at any time; she only needed to be patient. But in all honesty, her reason for going to the art gallery was not so romantic or noble, but just desperate and obvious. She only went there because there was a chance – a good chance, a fighting chance – that Scott would be there.

He had taken her there on several occasions, holding doors open and bundling her against the cold.

That had ended some weeks ago, but Olivia was a fool, the worst kind of fool who believes chance encounters could be manufactured, who believes hope comes from an ever-replenished spring and who believes chances are unlimited. She had convinced herself that if Scott saw her again, he’d believe it was fate and he’d give her a few precious moments to make her case as to why they belonged together. Olivia flat-out refused to believe Scott could feel or think any way other than the way she wanted – needed? – him to and on her best days, she could claim a romantic optimism, but more often than not, she knew better. It was pathetic and desperate.

Olivia had arrived at the gallery upon opening. She made herself comfortable, draping her coat over her arms crossed casually over her chest and meandering through the aisles slowly, languidly, always thinking, thinking, thinking. She had purchased lunch in their adjoining cafe, unwilling to leave the premises because she knew with a supernatural certainty that the moment she did, Scott would arrive and her last chance would be blown. Olivia didn’t eat much, but thoroughly enjoyed the complimentary wine and cheese despite the glowering looks from the supervising employee who quickly realized Olivia was only loitering and taking more than her fair share. The employee was able to remain smug because he rightly assumed that Olivia was a fraud, a dopey woman who probably couldn’t name a single artists featured in the gallery’s collection, let alone the title of one of the masterpieces.

And that was all true; Olivia didn’t know anything about art. So there she was, alone in an art gallery five minutes before closing, standing before some oil painting with tears in her eyes. Scott had not appeared, had not wrapped her in his arms, had not made everything okay. “Oh my God,” she said to no one at all. “I am so, so stupid.” Her voice cracked, broke, and the tears began to fall freely. “He doesn’t miss me, does he?” she asked, but there was no one there to answer, especially not Scott.

The painting before Olivia was of a young man in riding clothes, posing in some wild-looking garden. He had dark features and a very serious expression. The painting was generic and unremarkable, and Olivia found it all so fitting. What better place for her to have an emotional breakdown than in front of a random painting? Only truly great women could sob before the Mona Lisa.

Olivia released a shuddering breath. “I loved him. I loved him very much, and I should have made sure he knew that.” She wiped at her nose. “I just tried so hard to be cool, to not cling to him, to finally be the one who wasn’t so obviously at the mercy of the other person in the relationship. I wanted power and control more than I wanted him.” She sobbed. “But that was wrong, and I was wrong. I guess he mistook all that for indifference, thought I didn’t care, and now he’s gone.” She rubbed her eyes, smearing mascara and eyeliner without so much as a passing thought to her appearance. “I just wanted things to work out this time, this one time. I wanted it to be different. But here I am!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands before her and allowing her coat to fall to the marble floor. Her tone was now cold, sarcastic. “I’m alone on Valentine’s Day and I’ll probably die this way.” Ashamed and suddenly overwhelmed by self-pity, Olivia covered her face with her hands. She cried against her palms, unintelligibly begging for some divine intervention, for salvation from loneliness. She cursed Scott and his new girlfriend (which Olivia assumed he must have – what else kept someone busy on Valentine’s Day?) and then cursed herself for cursing Scott, for being petty and stupid. She berated herself into some state of composure, then allowed her hands to fall to her sides. Once more, she faced the painting.

A guttural scream exploded from her lips and reverberated back to her from the empty aisles as a terrifying sound, so Olivia knew she had to make it stop lest she scared anyone else. She clasped her hands over her mouth and stared with wide, petrified eyes at the painting that had changed, that had most certainly changed, that had definitely changed. The young man featured front and center had turned, had somehow shifted to directly face Olivia. His expression had drastically softened, like he was sympathetic to her pathetic whimpering. In his right hand was a dark red rose. Olivia could easily and readily identify which bush it had come from.

Olivia looked about wildly, curious if her outburst had attracted any attention at all. No one appeared to be rushing over. There were no strangers nearby to validate the impossible event she had just witnessed. Should she call someone over? Would she be believed? Would anyone else see what she was seeing? She returned her gaze to the painting.

Olivia thought she was going to vomit and then pass out, simply keel over. The painting had changed again.

The young man was smiling kindly, very kindly, in a way that almost calmed Olivia, who was on the verge of becoming hysterical. His arms were spread wide, as if he were offering her something. Guided by an unfamiliar instinct, Olivia looked at the floor beneath the painting. There lay the dark red rose the young man had been holding.

Slowly, breathing deeply, Olivia bent to retrieve the rose. The stem was covered in thorns, real enough that Olivia pricked her pointer finger and it began to bleed. The petals were soft and the fragrance was strong. It made Olivia smile. In spite of the lunacy, the sheer insanity of it all, Olivia smiled. She looked to the young man in the painting to thank him, but the expression of gratitude died on her lips. The painting was as it was before, as it should be. Olivia gasped. It was so bizarre that she was transfixed, unable to look away. She reached out her free hands, the one not holding the rose, to touch the painting, to ascertain if it was real, or if there might be some technological trickery at work.

A throat cleared itself behind her.

Nearly screaming aloud again, Olivia wheeled around to find the employee who had been so stingy with the wine and cheese standing behind her. “Ma’am, don’t touch the paintings,” he instructed in a bored tone of voice. “Also, we’re closing now. You’re going to have to leave.”

“Oh, oh, okay,” Olivia mumbled, pale and confused. The employee, seemingly oblivious to Olivia’s distress, turned away. He trotted down the hall, and Olivia scooped up her coat, careful not to lay eyes on the painting in case it changed again, in which chase she would have a heart attack and die. She hurried to the exit, but not before she mumbled a hurried and terribly confused, “thank you.”

The young man in the painting smiled but there was no one there to see it.

hc single valentine's day

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