Can you deliver the goods? That’s what my husband Phill (my most enthusiastic fan and my most severe critic) asked me when I showed him the completed trailer for my novel, which I’ve uploaded to my darkskycity site, and also to YouTube.
It’s true that the trailer claims something that happens in my novel will change everything we know about the planet Mars and that, as a result, womankind will assume her rightful place in the universe. I wrote and produced the trailer with my own brand of justifiable feminist swagger, re-envisioning first man on the moon Neil Armstrong’s “one small step” line as one taken by a Victorian lady in long skirts and crimson stockings as a way to comment on the lack of adequate female participation in science and technology, more specifically in astronomy and rocket science, and to suggest that somehow the women in my story serve to correct this imbalance.
A movie trailer is nothing without hyperbole (“the most amazing story ever told; featuring a cast of thousands; what you see will astound you”) and its purpose is to attract an audience, and so perhaps the exaggeration is justified. Once we actually see the entire movie, we can decide for ourselves whether or not its trailer was misleading; then the critics and movie reviewers can get busy and their more reasoned writings will eventually balance the rhetoric of the trailer.
Now that I’m nearly done with my novel, I realize I need to watch my own trailer over and over, as much as I need for others to view and comment on it, because I’m about to find out whether my book gets a rise out of the editors, agents, publishers I’m about to show it to.
Last time around, with Screwed Pooch, my first novel, I was certain I’d created a superbly written, original and entertaining story – until I was crushed underneath the avalanche of rejection slips from everyone I sent it to. The fact that I was able to publish it myself assuaged my hurt feelings somewhat, but the stigma as the “vanity press” lingers in the publishing world, no matter the quality of the writing.
That’s why I have to get my swagger on now, before I start making the rounds in the publishing universe. I can’t deliver the goods I’ve written, the way i want to deliver them, without engaging the help of a talented editor, an enthusiastic agent, a willing publisher.
Venus on Mars. The greatest novel on Earth! A literary spectacle beyond compare! This book will change the way you think about everything in the universe! A must-read!
You do believe me, don’t you?
The women in my book are clumsy; they often lose their footing and fall. Whenever they do, I have to write how it feels to have this happen – the sudden loss of balance, the instant knowledge that recovering it is not going to happen, the extended time it takes to actually fall, and the painful aftermath.
Falling is always scary; I’ve fallen three times since my hip replacement; I’m just less steady on my feet since the surgery. Once I tripped in front of a oncoming MUNI train – but I got up in a hurry. In my book Wrexie/Lulu faints and falls from the viewing chair in the observatory – most likely her corset was too tight and kept her from breathing. She later trips in the dark running from the dome to the barn and falls – right into the arms of an unlikely savior. My character Venus also falls down, hits her head and sprains her ankle, effectively stalling her out in Flagstaff and preventing her from completing her journey home, but the fall provides her valued time to reconsider everything in her life, a process that is long overdue.
All the falls in my book take place in the dark – the unseen, the unknown and certainly the less easily navigated. Falls are never vague, never subtle, never gradual, never without some degree of drama. Falls separate us from our past; each one begins a new chapter, one not necessarily connected to the previous ones. Each fall is like a sharp cut in a movie, a sudden change that happens without warning, and everything that happens after the fall is somehow tempered by it.
The other night I fell in the dark, on my way to bed. I have no idea why it happened; I just toppled over when I leaned down to take off my shoes. I woke up with blood all over my shirt the next morning and have had an off-and-on headache ever since. I’m well on my way to recovery, but I can’t shake the feeling that something momentous has transpired because of the fall. I don’t know what it is yet; I’ll have to wait and find out. In the meantime I’m thinking about the reverberation of falling, its lingering effects not so much on the body as in the mind. I play my fall over and over in my mind, trying to remember the person I was before, trying to discover the person I have been ever since, trying to evaluate the difference.
My character Lulu writes in her journal:
The journey toward any worthy goal contains within it a frozen moment in which past, present and future are fused into one that offers a brief view of the completed event. It’s like the pause just before a rose opens, its imminent splendor already evident, or the moment just before an accidental fall, the knowledge of its certain and painful outcome caught up in the very moment of falling.
A fall can restructure time, then, as well as space. Astronomers call the line separating night and day, or dark from light, as seen on the surface of the moon or planets a “terminator” line. It marks the termination of something – but also the initiation of something else. If we were actually on the moon or on Mars, we’d experience the same event not as a sharp line, but as a more gradual transition from light to dark, or from dark to light. Seen from another perspective, the time before, during and after a terminator may spread and extend like the mental space that lingers after my fall.