On Me
Writing this while I’m listening to Elliott Smith. Like the sounds of Joy Division, he always puts me in the mood to write to the length of a few cigarettes. And tomorrow that will change. It always does. Another band, another song to get me through a day. Could be Son Volt, could be The Misfits, could be The National, Modest Mouse or My Bloody Valentine. Yeah, I’m not really too different from anyone else. Whatever soundtrack we have cued up into our minds, I understand, we’re all the same – struggling to get from this day to tomorrow. Sometimes we just can’t wait for that sun to arrive. Other times, we wish it would just stay where it set until we figured out what in the hell everything means. Unfortunately, it always seems to be more the latter than the former. You know, those pages of white in the books that we all write. Just how fucking sad that they still all are an addition to our existence in time.
All right, okay, on with this. Virginia Austin is a pseudonym. It is formed by combining the middle names of my parents. My father, William Austin Duffy, died when I was nine. He drove my mother’s car into our garage and didn't remember to turn off the ignition, or open the door. I suppose he just got a little forgetful. We all become a little forgetful now and then, I guess. I’m not sure. I was told at the time it was a heart attack. My mother, Helen Virginia Brzezinski, died when I was in my twenties. For her, it was a better fate, but not that unusual for this family of three. She went in for heart surgery with a 99% survival rate and ended up being part of the select one percent. It’s odd, you don’t realize it until it arrives, but one can become an orphan at any age.
Anyway, I started writing sometime after that. Really didn’t have that much of a choice. It was either put down everything that I had in my mind or drink myself into oblivion. For my first book, Fated, I realized that I could do both.
At the time of my mother’s death, I was working in the nuclear industry. Still do, in fact. Fuck, I don't know what’s harder to explain to people I meet, that I help to design and modify these plants or that I write under a woman's name. I’m sure most walk away thinking that hell, if you’re going to lie, why not go for it all. I do find it strange though that I ended up as a writer. I really didn’t read much until I hit twenty. But at twenty,
in between LaPlace transforms and electromagnetic theory, I began to read the likes of Albert Camus, Jean Paul Sartre, Dostoyevsky, Thomas Pynchon, Carlos Castaneda and Richard Bach. Try making that switch on a daily basis. It can wreak havoc on the soul.
Oh, and yes, I have been published. Invariably, upon someone asking me what I do for a living, and upon me telling them that I write, they then ask if I’ve been published. I suppose most find it a prerequisite as to my credibility to deface a few pages. Fuck, I don’t ask them if they’re CEO of their company when they tell me what in the hell they do. Lately, I’ve just been telling new acquaintances that what I do is treat people the way I would want to be. In the end, that is really what matters. Anyway, Cross Cultural Publications put my second book, American Jesus, into print. The royalties, though, I could spend on a good night in a bad bar. And lately, even more so, since the company
has since folded and the rights have been returned.
These stories I know are tragic. And I guess to some extent the details of the author. But we all have our own stories of sadness and loss. I always knew that I wasn’t in some exclusive club and rarely do I let the past bleed through. And I certainly don’t live like that. You couldn't and still expect to breathe.
Any more details, write me. Because right now that is pretty much all I have to say about myself.
On Writing
It will now take me about five to six months to finish a novel. Not a bad pace if you really think about it. But I am so obsessive. I will write four to five times a day, usually no more than two hours at a time. Music I have playing in the background, the room is always darkened, candles are always lit, a cigarette always going. I start with coffee and somewhere after the first two cups switch over to alcohol to rid myself of the caffeine that is tracing through my veins. What I gain from this routine I believe is fluidity in the story and in my characters since they never leave me. What I lose
from the routine I know is years from my life. Don’t lecture me, please. I understand completely. But truly, I am not worried about living until I am ninety. I am just worried about contributing something before the end. That exchange I will make every time.
I wrote at the end of my first novel that we are all authors. The only distinction of a writer is the pen. I still hold pretty firm to that belief. Write 500 words a day and in five months you will have 75,000 words, which is about a 250-page book. Break that down even further and let's say you write in the morning before going to work, right after you return, and then before retiring to bed, all you need then is approximately 170 words per session. Of course, the sacrifice is that you have to completely throw out everything else in your life. I can do that. But in order to do that, I believe that you need three
things. You need conviction, dedication, and confidence. Believe that the story is something to be told. Put your fingers on the keys every day. And write every line like you think no else can. Passion? It just follows logically and quite the empty word without the other three in place.
What I’m asked a lot is what I am reading at the moment. Damn, I wish I had the luxury to read like I want. What’s amusing is the advice the publishing industry gives for burgeoning authors: Read everything in your genre. That’s just terrific fucking advice. If I was always reading, then when in the hell would I find the time to write? Just write. If you’re at the point where you want to author a book, then you will already have read what you have had to. And anyway, if I did read everything in my genre, wouldn’t I end up sounding just like them?
I will take credit for one thing, though. Even after ten years at this, I still do not find a page of complete white to be daunting. I may have a block for a session or so but it does not last for more than a day. And that is probably only because I do not let it last for a day. I can fight through those times. There are a few tricks I use to get past this. One is music. As I mentioned, music is always tracking in the background. I’ll choose a song that fits a scene and then play it ad infinitum. Another is to go and write to my scenes. You don’t have to be in the exact location. Only somewhere similar. I will sit outside for hours and pick up on all the background details. Third, don’t beat yourself senseless over a particular scene. Move on and write in another chapter. Although, I do caution on
writing dialogue before its time. Your characters will change as the story develops so you never want to be out of order. Therefore, if I jump ahead, it is always just description.
On feedback. You know, you can go ahead and drop off that chapter or manuscript on the doorstep of your significant other, your mother, and even your best friend. If you need reinforcement then by all means. But truly, in the end, I believe that only we really know what will stand out and what will not. A kiss on the forehead, a soft pat on the back is not going to help one fucking bit. And it is certainly not going to change that sentence that you had hesitation about in the first place. They’re only going to tell you what you wanted to hear in the first place. Also, don’t try to be too cute in every line. There are times, and plenty of them, when you just have to say what is needed to be said without any superfluous words in between. Your reader will appreciate this. Less is usually more. In fact, less is always more.
Do your research. It takes up about half of my time writing. Think of your reader as being omniscient. Because if you have enough of them, then collectively they really are. As soon as you put down something that they know is completely erroneous, then you have lost all credibility. The Internet has cut my research time in about one-half. It is like having the Library of Congress at your disposal. However, do check a few websites before believing anything that is written there, obviously.
Grammar. This one sucks. I use the Gregg Reference Manual because I still can’t
understand The Chicago Manual of Style. But I also look at other novels if I am really in doubt. If Random House fucks it up, then I am okay with that.
Your story? Make it worthwhile. Make it interesting. And please, if it looks like your main is going to the cemetery don’t conjure up a deus ex machina to bring him or her back from the grave. Jesus, don’t save them from the inevitable just so your reader can go to bed with a smile on his or her face. No one gets out of here alive so my philosophy has always been to apply that to my novels. Life is a silly endeavor, great at times I do admit. However, it does end in death and I suppose I just like to remind people of that. What is also great about it is that even the happy people die. That’s one solace that always puts a smile on my face. Should really have had that attitude in high school. Yes, you may be homecoming king or queen now but odds are pretty fucking good that someday we are all going to look the same, or somewhat similar.
That’s it. That’s all I have for now. I’m out of cigarettes, and I am on my last glass of cabernet.