As you can see, my writing hasn't changed all that much...

by Giselle Renarde

A conversation in the comments of a 2013 post here at OGG got me searching for a book I wrote when I was nine.

Back then, I was all about the fan fiction. Usually I wrote stories about cartoon characters. Sometimes I'd rip off of a Quebecois children's series called "Sophie, l'apprentie sorcière" (written by Henriette Major, published by Editions Héritage).  I loved these middle-grade books about a funny tomboyish witch-in-training, when I was a kid, but you can't get them anymore, as far as I can tell.

This is your lucky day, because you're about to read some of the earliest Giselle Renarde writing in existence. 

Stick around for Sophie va à Hollywood!

Don't worry; I'll translate.

That "Bravo!" sticker is the best review my work's ever received...

Once upon a time somewhere in Giselle's brain...

It was the first day of June. Hervé (I don't remember who he was--their teacher?) told us we had to do a play, but not just a little skit, it had to be exciting.

"I know which play we should do: Pretty Woman," said Antoine.  (umm... A. not a play and B. not appropriate for nine-year-olds)

"Yes, that's a great idea. I'll be the 'Pretty Woman'," said Chantal, shaking her hair. (okay?)

"Antoine, you can be the boy who..." said Sophie.  (who... pays for sex?)

Ooh a picture!

"YES, I KNOW SOPHIE!" said Antoine. (you know Sophie? or you know, Sophie?)

"Tomorrow is Saturday. We can go see the film," said Chantal.

The next day they went to see the film. Sophie's gang rehearses the play. When they return to school, Hervé wants to see the play. (look at his big nose. haha)

"You guys are so gifted that you could go to Hollywood!" said Hervé.

They were so happy that they jumped in the air and sat on the light fixtures.

The next day was Friday. (wow, they lost a whole week) Sophie's gang took a plane to Hollywood, California. They were all excited.

"Now we can be on America's Funniest Home Video's"! ([SIC!!!]) said Antoine. (it's 1990, yo!)

Image: a movie theatre with extraordinarily long grass outside

When they get off the plane, they see their names in lights: "Chantal Rose, Sophie Cooper, and her friend Antoine in Pretty Woman." (i guess they're IN the movie now) They all go to the mall.  (can you tell I grew up in the burbs?)

"We're in Hollywood!" said Chantal.

"Sophie, we can change our name to the Pretty Woman gang," said Antoine.

"That's a great idea," said Sophie. (no, she would have punched him for questioning her authority)

"We have lots of money. We can live in Hollywood," said Chantal.

The next day they went to San Francisco to see Bob Saget. (HA!) They had... (ooh the suspense is killing me...)

$100! We're rich! Backwards dollar sign!

...a lot of fun in Hollywood. But one day they only had $100, so they went home!

(Well, that's it.  I'm sorry there's not more because I'm pretty sure I peaked in Grade 3. The end.)

Another Post About How I Have No Idea What I'm Doing

by Giselle Renarde

I'm not a "trained" writer by any stretch of the imagination. I have a degree, but it's not in English or Literature, though I did take an English Literature course along the way. Been there, done that, got The Norton Anthology to prove it.

When I was in high school, there was a class called Writer's Craft. It was a creative writing course. Some of my friends took it. I didn't.

I wrote stories when I was a kid. I wrote a lot of stories, actually. My Grade Three teacher told my mom I would grow up to be a writer. I dismissed that idea. I wanted to be a number of things over the course of my young life, but a writer was never one of them.

And yet here I am, a professional writer. Funny how that happens, huh?

When I started writing, I knew NOTHING. Less than nothing, because I didn't know the market either. I've talked here before about my first round of edits on my first ebook (The Birthday Gift) with my first publisher (the now defunct Dark Eden Press). It made me want to quit writing forever. It was in that moment that I realized how little I knew.

I felt really stupid. And I was really stupid.

I had no idea what point of view was. Seriously. I didn't. I'd never thought about it. I started my career writing letter-style erotica for Hustler Fantasies and the like, so I guess I somehow knew enough to write a letter in the first person. Maybe I just lucked out. No, DEFINITELY I just lucked out.

So... The Birthday Gift was (and still is!) written in the third person and I'm pretty sure that was the first time I'd ever written a book wherein the "I" was "she." I was extremely not good at it. Wish I'd known that at the time, but my editor was quick to enlighten me.

I've never been the kind of author who confuses tenses or head-hops, thank goodness, but my very first editor had to teach me about "deep third." Did I have any idea what that was? Nope. But she helped me understand that in this genre you really need to get inside the character's head. It's a lot like writing in the first person.

Actually, I've spend the past three days revising a story that was originally published six years ago, which means I probably wrote it seven years ago. Yup, you read that right: THREE days revising a SHORT story. It was in rough shape, and I'll tell you why: I learned writing on the job. And when you're learning, you're not always producing glorious prose.

Early in my career, everything I wrote in the third person was awkward and clunky and just... really really not good. Not that I realized it at the time. If an editor told me I needed to shake up my sentence structure, I'd go overboard and create these sentences that were just incomprehensible. I was trying too hard. I needed time to relax into my writing.

I've always been more comfortable writing in the first person (past tense--present just keeps slipping into past which is why I've never written anything longer than about 2,000 words in first person present), and it's kind of my default. I especially like the unreliable narrator aspect of it. It's nice not to be the authority. The character can really take over and misspeak and be wrong about stuff and that's okay.

I also feel like when I'm writing in third I need to showcase MY voice, whereas writing in first person feels like slipping fully into the character's skin. It's a wonderful kind of escapism. This character steps into my life and I get to become her completely. Or him.

So it's pretty well established that I had no effing clue what I was doing when I started life as a writer. Do I know what I'm doing now, 8+ years in?

Good question. I know what point of view is...

I guess that's a start.

Authors Are So Neurotic

by Giselle Renarde

Let's get all deep and psychological, k?

I've got two novels sitting at the back of my hard drive.  I wrote them.  It took aaaaaages.  Now all I need is to edit the hell out of them before sending them out to publishers.  Every so often I open one of the files, thinking, "This is it.  I'm going at this thing, hardcore!"  I read one chapter, make some changes... and then I shut it down.

I like these books.  I mean, I REALLY like them.  It's not like I'm putting off editing because I think it's going to be difficult and time-consuming (though, realistically, it probably will be).

So, why am I procrastinating?

Because, once I'm finised with the edits, I'll have to decide what to do with these manuscripts.

Do I send them to publishers I've worked with before?  Makes sense. The possibility of getting a contract is higher at houses where I've already established roots.  But maybe I should take a chance by sending them somewhere new.  Is new better?  The grass is always greener at that other publishing house.  Oh, if I get in there, just image the distribution, the sales!  Imagine finally being able to pay the rent AND eat more than oatmeal for every meal!

Except, it never works out that way.

I've been here before.  I've sent my work to that perfect publisher, been accepted, and felt thrilled because this is it!  This is the book that'll hit the big-time!

And then... it doesn't.  We authors have such high hopes, but they never seem to pan out.  I've heard from writers contracted by the big publishing houses that they've never earned out their advances.  Bigger doesn't necessarily mean better.

Regardless of publisher, once a book is up for sale you've got to market the hell out of it.  Still, if nobody's interested, they're not going to buy.  And if you've worked your ass off on a manuscript and nobody buys it, how do you feel?  That's right--like a failure.

Take The Red Satin Collection as an example.  My trans lesbian Christmas erotic romance won the 2012 Rainbow Award for Best Transgender Romance/Erotic Romance, but... I won't even tell you how few copies sell.  It's too embarrassing.

So, do I feel proud that my book won an award, or ashamed because nobody buys it?  I'll give you one guess.

Or what if a book sells really well, but the whole world hates it?

I've been there, too.

My book Stacy's Dad has got it Going On was an Amazon bestseller.  It hit the ground running.  And then the reader reviews came in: "OMG so boring! Worst book ever!"  That might even be a direct quote.  I tried to put it out of my head.  Professional reviews were highly complimentary, but readers hated it.  (Seems odd to distinguist between readers and reviewers, since the readers are posting reviews and reviewers are obviously reading the books.)

And once that title became plagued by 1-star reviews, that was it.  Sales dried up.  The end.

It's no wonder I'm procrastinating when it comes to getting these two lying-in-wait novels on the market.  In my mind, they're either going to sell and be hated, or be loved and barely earn me enough to buy oatmeal.  Those are the only options.

And they wonder why authors are so neurotic?

--
Giselle Renarde  
Canada just got hotter!

Visit me online
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com
http://www.wix.com/gisellerenarde/erotica
http://twitter.com/GiselleRenarde

TIme is On My Side (In Fiction)

I'm good at writing the last lines in stories. Often, I have the final words figured out long before anything else. I like coming up with the neat ending, the perfect parting shot, the memorable farewell. Those final words are a bit like a punchline and, as someone who spent a few years writing greeting cards, I know the punchline is all important.

One of my favorite greeting cards I ever wrote was intended to be the last line of a story: "I'm glad you broke up with me. I was starting to feel guilty about cheating on you."

Zing! I love that. It's funny, it's bitter and it says so much about the character (or the giver of the card). It's the kind of closure one never gets in real life-- which maybe is why I'm a fiction writer.

I'm trying to recall moments in my life that offered the kind of real and final closure that fiction so often provides. I can't think of many. All the moments of closure I've experienced have been the result of big moves or death or having the circumstances take the choice out of my hands entirely. In the case of death, the closure was with my mother-- a relationship that was destined to never have any sort of real closure as long as we were both alive. And death is a rather unsatisfactory form of closure-- it takes away the options. There is no argument to fight, no tearful reunion, no epiphany to be had-- even when it brings a sense of guilty relief, death is a hollow, empty kind of closure.

For that matter, time itself is a kind of unsatisfactory closure. The failure to make up my mind about something often results in the decision being made for me. I thought I would be childless because I couldn't commit to the idea of having children. At almost 41, I decided to give it a whirl-- and here I am, three years later, weeks away from having my second baby. According to statistics, time wasn't on my side and I was likely to remain childless for having waited so long. Closure, as provided by mother nature. There's a resounding finality to the kind of closure that results in the slamming of a window, but I don't know how satisfactory it might be when its someone else doing the slamming.

Letting time in the form of deadlines provide closure on other things-- writing, education and job opportunities-- has led to a deep sense of discontent with myself. Sometimes, it is all well and good to go with the flow and see where life takes me-- but most of the time I reject the idea of letting life happen to me that way. I want to be in control of my decisions! I want to create my own closure! Even if control and closure are only illusions of my over active imagination.

But again, the most satisfactory end game moments are rarely found in real life. Friendships and relationships go out with a whimper, not a bang; lifelong goals wither on the vine as other responsibilities take precedent; choices we make are often balanced by the choices other people make: "I love you" is not closure-- "I don't love you" is.

The saying goes, "When one door closes, another opens." It's not always true. Some things, once gone, are gone forever and can never be replaced or forgotten. It's closure of the most bitter sort-- to lose something and know it was a one of a kind, whether a person or a dream or an experience, it's closure tinged with sadness and regret.

Time steals from us. It takes away options and choices and we say things like, "It wasn't meant to be" or "It happened for a reason." These are the statements of closure, of acceptance. True or not, we are forced to acknowledge that time is going to do the job for us if we can't do it ourselves. But when the closure is going to be painful-- as it so often is-- time softens the blow. Time takes away the litany of questions about what to do, what to do say, how to say it, when to say it, whether to pursue it any further. Time says, "Enough is enough. It's over. Move on."

In fiction, time stands still. I can dawdle over the ending, tweak the words until they hum with significance and resonate in my soul. I can say goodbye, I love you, fuck you, you will never hurt me again-- and I can take my sweet time saying it. This messy existence of mine is tidy in fiction, it makes sense, it takes the path I want it to go. And, if I decide I want to take another path, fiction provides me with endless roads not taken-- all of which are mine to explore at will. I can create the closure missing from my real life, I can commit to the decisions that are too big and scary to make, I can give the farewell speech that I was too tear choked and tongue tied to say. Fiction lets me create my own closure. Writing that closure is my salvation from regret.