Category Archives: Writing

When writers read: inspiration, encouragement, or despair?

My Reads, Writing,

In recent weeks, my pile of books-I-want-to-read-because-I-want-to has been greatly neglected.  As some of you know, I continue to be dogged (or whaled) by 493 pages of Herman Melville’s weird-not-really-a-novel treatise on whaling, Moby Dick, which I have been trying to finish for five months.  (Thank god for the Moby Dick Big Read.)  In addition, I’ve had a number of work-related manuscripts to read for colleagues as well as reading for research on a new nonfiction project.

I think my eclectic reading of late has been good for my writing because it is so different in content, style and approach.  It helps avoid issues of syntactic persistence, about which I’ve blogged elsewhere.  However, I have missed disappearing into a truly extraordinary piece of fiction.  So it was with relish that I opened John Green‘s The Fault in Our Stars.

It lives up to every starred review and glowing commendation, but I can’t blog here about how I responded to this book as a human, especially in the wake of the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary.  Too much is raw and painful for me.

Rather than dissect the inner workings of my broken heart, I want to comment on how what I read influences my writing life.

Sometimes I read a book and I am inspired to try and write something that good.

Or I am encouraged that I have the ability to write something at least as good as that.

Or I wish I’d written that book (and believe that I probably could have).

Or–as in the case of The Fault in Our Stars–I despair at ever writing anything even a fraction as true and perfect.

Sigh.

Maybe I should stick to being a reader.

 

 

 

Ideas into stories–the compost/rock tumbler approach

Writing, ,
Photo by Kevin Fleming

Perhaps the question most frequently asked of authors is Where do you get your ideas?

When I heard William Gibson speak,  he said that he imagines he has a compost bin attached to the back of his head.  He throws things in there–articles, snippets of conversation, images, experiences–and eventually they knock together enough to transmogrify into something new.

When Laini Taylor launched DAYS OF BLOOD AND STARLIGHT, the wildly inventive sequel to DAUGHTER OF SMOKE AND BONE, she talked about how stories are born when many ideas crash together.

Sometimes I carry ideas around in my back pocket for a very long time.  One in particular–a scene with a broken-winged heron–has been very persistent.  I tried to make it into a picture book, which earned me my “worst critique ever” experience.  (After reading it, Big NY Agent told me that I couldn’t write.)  I rewrote it a bunch of times, but it never really worked.  I think it’s not a big enough idea to graduate into “story” status.  It needed transmogrification.

I was gleeful when I realized that–with a complete overhaul–the heron and the emotion behind the image could be woven into the novel I’m currently writing.  The idea will emerge from the head-bin completely different than went in but it has not been lost.

It’s at times like these when the writing process becomes alchemy–a little bit of magic in real life.

 

Give me a sailor and let me run away to sea

Antics, Travel, Writing, ,

This is the thing about writing…  I get to fall in love over and over again.   And not just over shiny story ideas.  I know writers gush about that a lot, but I tend to make an idea prove itself to me before I commit.

(Run with that, Dr. Freud.)

No, I fall in love with the deep substance of the story and–especially with nonfiction–the subjects.

Last week, I spent three days in Astoria, Oregon, doing research for a new book project on the pilots who work the Columbia River bar.

I interviewed two pilots, toured the boat basin and climbed aboard both of the pilot transport boats (Chinook and Columbia), and checked out their shiny new helicopter at the airport.  And, in a completely unexpected turn, one of the pilots offered to let me ride along as they transferred a pilot to an inbound bulk carrier ship.

AMAZING!!!

The two bar pilots I interviewed held me rapt.  I could have listened to them talk for hours.  And if you had been there and heard the way they talked about the sea and the ships and the life of a sailor, you would’ve fallen in love too.  And if you had been on Chinook, zooming across the most dangerous river to ocean crossing in the world, you would have lusted for the power of her engines, the grace of her handling, and the perfection of her lines.

You would fall in love too.

 

Graph Your Novel (Seriously!) – Guest Post by Me @wilwrite

Events, Writing, ,

I’m excited to be on the faculty at the Willamette Writers Conference  in early August.  I’ll be talking about using critique to enhance your writing life, and I’m bringing my Angel Punk manpack to talk about transmedia.

If you want to join me (which would be amazing and cooler than cupcakes), click here to register.

And you can follow the conference blog to get more from all the faculty in advance.  My guest blog — Graph Your Novel (Seriously!) — appears on here and a teaser below…

If writing a first draft is like trying to out-run an avalanche, revision resembles digging out with a shovel.  Any tool that can cut through the details and provide a panoramic view of the shape of our story is useful.  Try a graph—seriously!

Pick 1-3 things that you want to focus on and that you can rate on a 1-10 scale.  Some examples include voice, pace, likeability of a character, emotional intensity, conflict, fluidity of language, narrative coherency, moving plot forward, or a character’s transition from one state to another.  If a critique partner is doing this for you, asking if s/he’s “lost” will help analyze backstory components.  One of my critique group members analyzed the “turn the page factor” on a scale from 1, completely uninterested, to 10, can’t stop to pee.  Read more…

Flash fiction – Vicks VapoRub

Antics, Writing, ,

Recently, I was on the faculty at the South Coast Writers Conference in Gold Beach, Oregon.  I had a wonderful time teaching and connecting with many talented writers.  I also was lucky enough to get to attend a workshop taught by the poet, Drew Myron.  Each participant received a clear vial of something.  We smelled and then we wrote.  It was a blast.  Here’s the piece of flash fiction that came out of that writing prompt.

VICKS VAPORUB

I know we’re in love—the real kind—because you kiss me even though I’m sick.  I’m talking funny, nose-plugged, nestled in warren of blankets.  Laptop balanced between us, we’re cruising YouTube for TED talks and snowboarding clips and the Beanie Baby parody of The Hunger Games.

Every few minutes you lean through a mentholated halo of Vicks VapoRub and nuzzle my neck.  The smear of it under my nose drives you back into the pillows with watering eyes.  Laughing and wiping tears on your sleeve, you tell me a story.

There was this guy in my dorm in college.  Edgar.  We played ultimate frisbee on the quad every Thursday.  And he had the world’s worst smelling feet.  Anyway, in sophomore year, he started dating this girl.  I don’t remember her name just that she was in our ecology class and had dimples and she didn’t last long with Edgar.  Here’s why.  

It was late.  The rest of us were partying in the room next door.  But Edgar and Dimple Girl were having sex.  And she was kinda loud, so those of us near the wall between the rooms got full-audio.  They’d been going at it for a while when the moans turned to screams.  

Screams?  You pause, grin wicked, and stare at me until I can’t help blushing.

You wanna know what happened?

I nod and dodge as you dive-bomb my neck.  Mission accomplished, you flop back against the headboard.

That douche, Edgar—I found out later—reached for the lube and got the Vicks by mistake.

Oh my god!  I snort into the comforter.  Tiny bits of down tickle my cheeks.  Vicks!  Not Vicks!  I nuzzle your shoulder with the bite of it in my nose.  It ropes us in, sharp as barbed wire, but we are all tangled limbs, new love, and the scent—thank god only the scent—of Vicks.

Going back to my dog-earred copy of The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron

Writing,

It’s been nearly three weeks since I turned my manuscript into my editor.  Honestly, I still feel very unsettled.  Creatively, I’m tapped out.  No projects are jumping up and down waiting to be loved on.  I don’t want to read the paper or books or watch TV or movies or even have serious conversations.  I don’t want to do anything that requires much mental effort.

Under normal working circumstances, I think I lead a balanced artistic life.  I’m enough in tune with my own rhythms to know that when I’m “on,” I put my shoulder to it and usually accomplish a great deal.  I also know that when I’m not in the flow of the work, it’s better for me to stop, go running, do something else.  I trust the ebb and flow of my productivity.  Listening to what I need and responding appropriately always leads to good, solid work.

Deadlines completely screwed with that plan.  Instead of stepping back, I pushed through.  Instead of taking a break, I plowed forward.  And that’s fine.  Books need to get finished on time, and I can do just about anything for six weeks.  However, I’m coming to realize how depleted I am.

I was talking about this with another writer friend, and she asked if I was doing morning pages a la Julia Cameron.  No, I wasn’t.  The thought of writing three pages a day made me a little squirmy, but when my friend left, I pulled out my tattered copy of The Artist’s Way and started reading from the beginning.  In addition to morning pages, Cameron recommends a weekly date with your inner artist.  She suggests going by yourself to some place or activity to fills you with fun or inspiration.  For Cameron, this is a way to “fill the creative well.”

Aha!

Just the answer I was looking for.  It’s time to focus on filling the well.

…  and doing morning pages!

 

I don’t know anything about writing. Or do I?

Writing, ,

I’ve been pretty silent on the blog and on twitter lately.  I like to think I can tweet helpful nuggets for writers as well as the occasional spattering of encouragement, but I’ve been coming up empty.  I find myself staring at the screen thinking, “I don’t know anything about writing.”

This is kind of dumb because I’ve been writing full time now for a couple of years.  I’ve got four books out and the Angel Punk novel is under contract.  I should know a thing or two, right?

Nicole Marie Schreiber recently posted on how to reconnect with your WIP after a long absence from it.  She spoke about nurturing the love affair with your book.  It strikes me that I’m anticipating the break-up with my WIP and that’s why I feel so clueless about writing.

Things I know about myself: I’m all-or-nothing. I don’t know how to hold back.  I’m a believer, and I fall in love hard–very hard.  Last July, when I signed on to write the novel for Angel Punk, I committed, immersing myself in the project and the team.  When I’m writing, each character is real.  Everything that happens to them, happens to me.  Mara bleeds, and I hurt.  Lovers kiss and I swoon.  I have lived and breathed Angel Punk.  It has been my world.

And we’re going to break up…

I’m doing one more set of revisions before I send the manuscript to my editor.  I’ll have a little bit of time on my hands then I’ll do another set of revisions and…  we’ll be done.  I’ll have to say good-bye.

In a recent interview (her first in 35 years), Anne Tyler said:

“When I finish a book, I send the book to New York to be read by my agent. I picture them on a train, and my heart is broken. I mean, I’m thinking of how they’re sort of limited people or shy people, and they’re just so brave to be going up there on their own. It’s really anthropomorphic. But then, after they get accepted, so to speak, and they’re a book on their own, I’m like a mother cat with kittens. I never think about them again. They’re gone.”

Knowing what I know about myself, I doubt I’d make a very good mother cat.  I like to gnaw on things.  I don’t like to let go.  So while I may know a thing or two about writing, I suck at breaking up.

*sigh*

We can still be friends, right?

 

The responsibility of writers to take on the world

Writing

Recently, a friend told me about a painting that depicted Nazi trains carrying Jews to the camps and carried the caption: What would you do?

(No, I don’t expect you to answer.)

He lobbed a different version of that question at me though.  What issues are facing the world NOW that carry that kind of weight?  What wrongs are being done that we turn away from?

(Don’t worry, I’m not going to share the horrifying list we came up with.)

Then he upped the ante by suggesting that writers have a responsibility to ask uncomfortable questions, to demand change, and to bring out our better selves.

(Okay, maybe I added some of that, but I’m sure he’d be on board.)

Now, my buddy is a journalist, and I’m a writer of kid lit.  My first impulse was to say that it incumbent on serious journalist to take on the world’s problems, but YA novels are not the forum for that kind of heavy-duty problem solving.

(A cop-out, I know.)

All you have to do is look at the #YAmatters kurfuffle to know that YA takes on serious topics and probably could take on even more.  The current wave of dystopian fiction is a great example of how we can imagine future worlds that will kick us into gear and get fixing stuff NOW.

But this discussion also made me think about why I write kid lit instead of adult literature where, some might say, I could take on more “important” issues.

Answer # 1: Hope.  Kid lit is allowed to have a happy ending.  We can embrace the possibility of the possible.  (See the poem Sometimes by Sheenagh Pugh for a riff on this.)

Answer #2: Change is personal.  Kid lit explores how young people become themselves.  Picture books clarify the relationship of child to the world.  Middle grade is often about finding self within the context of family.  YA explores the transition from child to adult.  Changing the rest of the world is daunting.  Become our own true, best selves is difficult but attainable.

Answer #3: Each of us matters.  Kid lit validates the experiences of the young.  A book can shepherd readers into self-worth and remind them of their importance to the world.

These readers—equipped with hope, a strong core self, and an unswerving belief in themselves—they are strong enough to face the problems before us and they can change the world.

 

“Into the fire with you” – character transformation through crisis vs reframing the narrative

Writing, ,
Temple of Fire burns during Burning Man

Recently my critique group and I got down to serious psychologizing about a main character in one of our mss.  It got me thinking about the differences and similarities of character transformation in fiction and human transformation in real life.

Someone smart–who I wonder?–said fiction is real life without the boring parts.  My seven-year-old daughter, well-schooled by her K/1 teacher and her writer mother, says, “I hate books without trouble!”

So true!  In most compelling fiction, we take a flawed but likeable main character and do one bad thing after another to her.  Through this crucible of fire (every once in a while, I love a good cliche), she is transformed.  She learns.  She grows.

Now I’ll be the last person to say there’s no trouble in real life.  Damn, but I’ve had my share of the slap-down by Life. However, I think it is pretty rare for us to experience something difficult, have an epiphany in the moment, and be instantly transformed.  Maybe people who’ve had near-death experiences know this kind of transformation, but that’s got to be rare.

The more common psychological state is that we–often unconsciously–develop a fixed “narrative” for ourselves.  For example, “I failed to attain my dream of becoming a ballet dancer because I’m not talented and special enough.”  That “story” can haunt our psyche for years (or mine, as the case may be).  It requires mental effort and commitment (and therapy) to REFRAME the narrative.  Mine now says something like, “I wasn’t able to reach the level of professional achievement as a dancer that I wanted because I was young and didn’t have proper mentoring from my parents or my ballet instructor.”

Rewriting our own narratives is HARD work!  And it’s boring work.  Maybe that’s why we like fiction and the transformation by fire it offers.  Maybe we’d also like fiction that shows the slow, hard work.  Maybe we need to remember that our own story matters.

“At any given moment you have the power to say this is not how the story is going to end.”

– Christine Mason Miller, Ordinary Sparkling Moments

When the @^&$ hits the fan… What I worry about as I write

Antics, Writing,

I’ll be honest.  I’m complicated.  I worry about a lot of things.  I over-analyze.  I dissect.  (Nod your head sympathetically toward my husband.  He’ll appreciate the gesture.)

Sometimes I feel like I’ve got a whole universe jammed inside my skin.  I’m stretched tight like a sausage with all the stuff I think about.  (Bonus points if you know why I selected that image.)

I’m not going to tell you what I worry about.  Mostly it’s boring, cliche, or embarrassing.  But I will tell you that the worrying is analogous to my writing process.  In the same way I might  fret about my kids’ future, I turn the elements of my story around and around.  I twist and tangle and ultimately untangle the narrative threads.  Because I’m complicated, I write complex characters in shifting universes.  I like to think that the personal anxiety has a purpose that is made manifest in the writing.

But the curious thing (and the point of this post) is that I never feel anxious about writing the book.  Isn’t that weird?  I worry about all these things, but there’s a deep down secure knowledge that I can write the book.  I will serve the story.  And I’m always learning how to do it better.  Cool, huh?