Dear Anne Stuart: I promise not to steal your red shoes.
I think in every reader’s life, we come across passages in writing that grab us emotionally, or that change something fundamental in the way we think or feel, or that we think are beautiful, or interesting, or hateful, or awful, or boring, or any number of responses. I know this has happened hundreds or thousands of times to me; I don’t count or remember every one after I’ve stopped reading. But some I do, and one in particular was a scene from Anne Stuart’s CATSPAW.
Now, I’m not an Anne Stuart fangirl. I’ll buy her books when I see them on the shelf, but I don’t usually pre-order. She’s one of those writers that produces books I always admire, but I don’t always connect with. Not always, but sometimes I do, in a big way.
I didn’t expect to with CATSPAW, because it didn’t sound like the type of story I’d usually enjoy. It was in this collection called THIEVES, SPIES, AND OTHER LOVERS and I don’t even remember how I got it, but I do remember I was living in Alaska at the time, in my dumb little studio apartment, and I can’t remember if the guy living with me had dumped me and flown off to Florida yet–and I thought I loved him, but, hey, I guess this scene has stuck with me longer than any feeling for that guy has.
In that scene, the heroine, Ferris Byrd, is telling the hero, Blackheart, why his past as a cat burglar is such an issue for her. She tells this story about when she was a girl, she saw a pair of red shoes in a store window. And although she knew that she could steal those shoes and never be caught, she didn’t take them.
And that was the blandest retelling of this scene you’ll ever see, because I’m writing it … and Anne Stuart is not. AND because there’s more to it than just a pair of shoes that Ferris Byrd (who used to be Francesca Berdahofski before she changed her name) didn’t steal. There was a girl who had very little, and who determined that her life would never be what her parents’ was, and that she’d never go without. A girl who could have easily taken those red shoes that she wanted so bad … but she didn’t. A girl who can never understand why Blackheart could steal, when a little girl who had nothing wouldn’t — and the little girl knew the only way to really escape her life was to earn her way out.
And still, I can’t begin to get across how fantastic this scene is. How Ferris’s character is revealed in a moment of absolute clarity, and the conflict in the book is illuminated perfectly, and you know every word in the book has been leading up to that scene and every word after it will have to deal with everything exposed in that scene, and as a reader, I’m sitting there thinking, “My god, that is writing done right.”
The writer in me is thinking the same thing, but suddenly that scene has become my personal pair of red shoes. I want to do that.
It would be easy, you know? I’ve got a good brain in my head. I could change the scene around, re-word it, play with it, and someone might say “This kind of reminds of that scene in that Anne Stuart book” but there’d be a lot of doubt. No one would really know, or prove anything. I could slip Anne Stuart’s red shoes into my book, and get away with it.
I’d know, though. That’d stop me right there, because I don’t handle guilt well.
But even if I didn’t stop, I’d also have to write this whole book around it to fit her shoes in, and it wouldn’t be just that scene, but a lot more I’d be taking. Because the red shoes aren’t THAT scene. There’s an unremarkable sentence in the first chapter that helps stitch the uppers to the sole. There’s the first kiss that makes the color more cherry than red. There’s the scene later, with Ferris naked except for the red shoes, and other scenes, with coffee beans and broken credit cards that are all nails in the heel. It all goes together–every word, every sentence, every paragraph, every scene.
And rewriting Anne Stuart’s book is going to be really freaking boring. I had a professor who once told me that writing is thinking (heh, I attribute that, even though it’s probably common knowledge — but this professor, he was one of those that made me really, really think, and I was taking his class as I was thinking about Demon Angel, and so the title of his book that he was making us read ended up in Hugh’s library, and Lilith made fun of it, because she would) but the last thing I want to do is re-think exactly that same things I did when I read Anne Stuart’s book. That kind of rewriting is not “rethinking” in the fun, transformative sense. That’s re-thinking, thinking the same thing again, being stagnant.
Oh yeah — and it was stealing.
I still wanted a pair of red shoes, though. So I got to work making my own — earning my own.
And it’s not like they are completely original, like I’ve made up the idea of shoes. I know I’ve been influenced by others, and I’ve brought in outside sources. Sometimes, I’ll write a scene, shape that heel, and then I’ll look at another writer’s similar heel and think, “Shit.” And then I’ll think about changing it, even though I wasn’t copying or lifting anything, just because it worries me so much. And sometimes I’ll rethink it … but sometimes, that heel is what the rest of the shoe demands, and anything else will make the design look like a piece of ass — or completely non-functional. So you move on, sometimes gritting your teeth, but trusting that, taken all together, it’ll be original, unique, and something to be proud of when it’s done.
More than anything, something that’s yours. And when you end up writing a scene that resonates with you like that scene in CATSPAW did, that has the same effect on you, there’s a very strange sense of humility and pride and love for what you’ve written. And, by god, you got it right. And there are sentences and paragraphs in there that you fight for, and you get it right. And even little phrases that you think, and rethink, and work at until they’re perfect, and you got it right with those, too. Then you finish it up, and you made your own goddamn shoes. And sometimes they pinch, and sometimes you can see where the stitching isn’t perfect, but they’re yours.
And they may collect nothing but one-star reviews on Amazon. The writing might be the clunkiest, shittiest thing in the universe. Your thinking might not be very original or rigorous. It might be a blog entry that no one reads, a journal article written for nothing but money, or an academic paper that your professor bleeds over, or a non-fiction piece that you sweated over and worried over and crafted with as much care as a mother with her newborn. None of that matters, good or bad, long or short, because you worked for it, and made every word your own.
Unless you didn’t. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do all of that typing.
I can imagine a couple of other things, though. I imagine that if I saw a scene in another book, with a former cat burglar and a woman trying to escape her past, that included a story about how she once didn’t steal a locket, my head would explode.
Because I wanted those red shoes so bad — but I didn’t steal them.
But it’s more than that. I don’t know how Anne Stuart feels about that scene, or about CATSPAW. Maybe she thinks its trash. Maybe she thinks the writing is awful, and worthless. Maybe she wrote it because she had to fulfill a contract. I don’t care; it means something to me. Readers own what they read, too — not in the same way as an author, but there’s ownership there. Maybe some guy who wrote about ferrets once upon a time is dead, and can’t care that someone stole his words — but somewhere, there’s someone who admired them, and who would care. (Maybe there’s a writer who obviously admired his words that should have cared, too.) And so, as a reader, not just a writer, to see someone else take what isn’t theirs just drives me crazy. To see them get away with it would be worse, because someone else might think, “Hey, look! Red shoes — I’m gonna get me some the easy way, too!” or even worse, “Hey, look! I guess that means there’s nothing wrong with getting red shoes the easy way!”
And there is always going to be someone who wants to take the easy way. Always. But if they know they can’t, if they know it’s wrong, that might stop them. If they still want to because they don’t care it’s wrong, maybe knowing there are consequences will stop them. Knowing that someone might rip away the label that isn’t theirs, and show them for what they are: someone with an empty closet.
But I’ve got a closet with red shoes. And although I still think hers are fricking awesome, I don’t need or want Anne Stuart’s anymore.
January 12, 2008 @ 1:44 pm
Beautiful.
January 12, 2008 @ 1:46 pm
Ditto. Beautifully written and a delight to read. Thank you.
January 12, 2008 @ 1:56 pm
The most creative and well written ‘reaction’ I’ve read all week.
January 12, 2008 @ 5:29 pm
Wonderful.
January 13, 2008 @ 1:59 pm
I’ll exchange one of my black-footed ferrets with a pair of your red shoes.
January 13, 2008 @ 5:41 pm
I love this. It is a really thoughtful treatment of this situation. And reading this, as a writer, I had a little pang of envy just off your description of how the scene focused the book. It sounded beautiful. I found myself wishing I’d made a scene like that, too.
Because you can sympathize with wanting those red shoes for yourself. Sometimes those red shoes represent everything a person wants to be in life, but then stealing them changes what you are a little bit. Or a lot.
January 14, 2008 @ 1:46 pm
You have earned your red shoes tenfold.
January 15, 2008 @ 5:19 pm
I was going to write something about how this reaction to the whole kefluffle is the best I’ve read, articulating ideas about ownership as a reader and not taking the easy way as a writer in a creative and measured way, and and and.
And then I saw this: :slashyhug: and I forgot everything I was going to say. So adorable!
January 16, 2008 @ 2:57 pm
This was really beautiful. Thanks.
January 16, 2008 @ 4:12 pm
That was just lovely! Thank you, sweetie.
January 16, 2008 @ 4:20 pm
Groan! You hit the nail on the head of one of my major dilemmas, but you don’t give the answer. How can you *tell* when you’ve borrowed a heel, and how can you *tell* when you’ve borrowed the whole damn shoe? And is it *such* a problem if you borrow the shoe, as long as you change the characters and genre and make the shoe a side issue instead of a lynch pin?
This is a wonderful blog post, but now you’ve opened a whole can of worms I thought I’d successfully stopped up. (-: You’ve done your duty.
January 16, 2008 @ 4:36 pm
Because I wanted those red shoes so bad — but I didn’t steal them.
This is the best post I’ve read in a very long time. I appauld you. I think this is something that honest writer’s worry about. Did I? Didn’t I? I’m not sure how thin the line is between inspiration and plagerism. But again lovely, thought provoking post.
January 16, 2008 @ 6:16 pm
That was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, and so true. I don’t think there’s anything in the world like the feeling of, “I made that” and putting your name on something someone else made, however much you love that something, won’t get you that feeling.
January 16, 2008 @ 6:39 pm
Not sure what to say except, Thank you, everyone, for dropping by and your really wonderful responses.
And Anne Stuart — thank you. Good writing is the best inspiration, I think. I imagine I’m not the only one you’ve inspired.
Micki — my short answer is, even if you don’t know the exact rules, you know it in your gut. Retelling Sleeping Beauty is one thing; retelling Robin McKinley’s version is another. Knowing that something your heroine says is similar to something another heroine says is one thing; making your heroine say it BECAUSE the other heroine said it (and because you couldn’t think of anything of your own to put in her mouth) is another. Reading a description of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and letting your character describe it in her words, or describing it in your voice is one thing; plopping that description into your work with a few looks at the thesaurus and moving around a few phrases is another.
Give me a couple of days, and I’ll give you a long answer 🙂
January 16, 2008 @ 8:11 pm
You hit the nail on the head!
“Catspaw” and “Catspaw II” are my favorite Anne Stuart books.
January 16, 2008 @ 9:44 pm
I love you. Sincerely.
January 16, 2008 @ 9:49 pm
Wow, that really helped me. For someone who is struggling with the self doubt on a constant basis, hearing someone put it in perspective for me will helpfully focus on the fact that I should be proud of my red shoes instead of trying to hide them, since I’m afraid someone won’t like them as much as I do.
Okay, that was one long run-on sentence right there, but I’m struggling with what I want to say. I think I’ll print this out and read it when those doubts hit.
Thank you for the beautiful blog post. I’m so glad I visited Argh Ink tonight.
January 16, 2008 @ 10:11 pm
Classy!
January 16, 2008 @ 11:28 pm
Beautiful. What a gorgeous, elegant explanation.
In the meantime, I am an Anne Stuart fangirl. I wish I could write as well as she does. I’m betting her grocery list is a thing of beauty, for instance. In the meantime, I’ll just have to content myself with my own voice and my own stories.
It’s a good place to be.
January 17, 2008 @ 3:43 am
(-: OK, I’m bookmarking you for the long answer.
January 17, 2008 @ 9:34 am
Mel, that was beautiful. Dammit. I want red shoes, too! But you know what? If I stole yours, they wouldn’t fit right because they were made just for you. And if I tried to wear them, they’d rub me raw. So I guess I better cobble my own pair. Thank you!
January 17, 2008 @ 11:49 am
Even without the current controversy, that is an essay that I think all writers should read at some point.
You got it right.
January 19, 2008 @ 1:50 am
Thank you, everyone, again. I just realized that Jenny linked to me from her blog (I lurk, and read her post before it was edited to add mine.) Thanks to everyone there for the kind responses. I wondered where all the hits were coming from 🙂
January 19, 2008 @ 9:14 am
Meljean, That was beautiful! As an aspiring writer, I feel you have articulated for me the feelings that come when reading a “keeper” book while trying to publish. I want so much to write a “keeper” myself, and I must earn it the way my mentors have. Controversy aside, this essay is an inspiration to me and writers everywhere. Thank you for your eloquent words.
January 19, 2008 @ 10:16 pm
Nothing compares with the satisfaction of creating something perfectly you–rather than perfectly someone else. Beautiful, brilliant post. Thank you.
January 28, 2008 @ 6:59 pm
Absolutely perfect! 😀
January 29, 2008 @ 6:17 pm
Wow. That was a beautiful post. I’m really without words. 🙂
July 19, 2008 @ 6:42 pm
Hello. I think you are eactly thinking like Sukrat. I really loved the post.