Tag Archives: writing process

Lightning Strikes: From Whence Inspiration?

Posted in editing, fiction, music, watcher of the skies, weird, WIP, writing by

Phatman - Lightning on the Columbia River (by-sa)

By Ian Boggs from Astoria, US (Lightning on the Columbia River) [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

 

Sure, sure. You make your own inspiration and all that. You sit, you write, you create. I get that. It’s 90% of the equation.

But what about those moments that are unplanned? I know I’m not the only writer out there that’s found profundity in hot showers or strains of music (in fact, most of the WIP fell into my brain during a shower). There seem to be situations where my brain is prone to wander unseen pathways, where I make connections in stories that, on normal writing days, just don’t seem to happen. No, I don’t believe in Muses, but there is some curious power in the workings of our brains when it comes to creating stories out of nothingness.

When I was writing Rock Revival, I plugged into music. Every day. Not just my favorite bands, but bands I’d never heard of. Music that was the music of my characters. Phoenix, The Black Keys, Mumford and Sons, the Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, Queen, Tori Amos, Kate Bush, Neko Case. That’s just a slice. Driving around, in particular, seemed to dislodge whatever scene I was struggling with and bring about new characters and situations I hadn’t planned, so long as the music was blasting.

((Now, this is a life of a panster, I realize. There are those writers out there who have the talent (and, yeah, probably the discipline) to write outlines and stick to it. But my first drafts tend to be my outlines. Which is probably why I love the hell out of editing so much. It’s polishing.))

For Watcher of the Skies, the inspiration has been less predictable. Life has been less predictable. Instead of walking around with a lightning rod like I was able to do with Rock Revival, I’ve had to rely on the random moments. It hasn’t been music, this time, at all, that’s moved me to moments of writing epiphany  Instead, it’s been during sleepless nights, moments of stillness when I can’t convince my brain to rest, when Joss and his friends come out to play. It’s almost like listening to whispers in the next room. Maybe that’s weird, but like I was saying in my post yesterday, it’s as close as I get to real magic.

So my question for you out there. Are you the lightning rod sort? Or do you wait for inspiration? Or do you just make it happen regardless of the situation? What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever gotten inspiration from? And for those of you with lives/jobs/kids/responsibilities, what do you do when it strikes at inopportune times?

The middle of Octember.

Posted in fiction, music, Rock Revival by

Image by Natania Barron. CC BY SA 2.0

These -ember months do seem to pile up rather quickly, don’t they?  Last week I went away to the West Coast, spending some time with family. I don’t know what it is about me, but every single time I make a trip like that I somehow think I’m impervious to jet lag. The truth is, I’m terrible with jet lag. Eastbound is nuts. It’s almost been a week and I still haven’t acclimated, not even close. So the last few nights I’ve been up well past 2 AM, then up again at 3 AM with the little girl. So lucidity is not exactly my strong point at the moment.

Anyway, in spite of all that I’ve still managed to find the time to write. I’ve had to give up on the novella, half because the novel won’t leave me alone and half because I know I can’t give at the time that it deserves. I hate having to say no about something, to walk away. But that’s one of the realities of being a grown-up! You really have to learn how to manage your time. Or else nothing gets done. I spent the bulk of yesterday working on taxes and putting together a family budget. I much would have preferred to do something creative. But thankfully, even though it was late, I got my thousand words written.

This past weekend we visited the coast, where my in-laws live. On the ride home I had a chance to speak to my husband about the novel and some of the frustrations I’ve been going over in my head. At first, I really thought the love story was going to be central to the book. But then it sort of fizzled. It’s a whole lot less about falling in love, and a whole lot more about letting yourself fall in love. The relationships in the book don’t define Kate, she isn’t better because she’s dating or not dating. She’s not a romantic. As she says in the last scene I wrote last night, she’s gotten to the middle of her 30s without having a relationship that lasted longer than a year. And at the end of the book instead of jumping head over heels, she just meets someone that for the first time she can see herself staying with. Michael helped reiterate what I already knew: the book isn’t about romance and squishiness. It’s about music and confidence and overcoming the obstacles preventing Kate from being true to herself.

Anyway, the book is nearing the end. It’s almost at 70K and that’s without the supplementary articles, emails, conversations, and snippets that are going in later. Likely it’ll bring the size up another 10K once it’s done. I was dreaming about an interactive app. Cart, horse, etc.

Kate spends the first half trying to get over Tom, who she briefly had a thing with–but after years of pining for him. He gets born again. They both, for the mean time, beat addiction. I think I like this scene the best. They’re in Paris, about to go on stage, and for the first time they actually sit down and talk about how hard it is to move beyond, to tour without drugs and to face the people they used to be.

He sighed, looking down at our twined hands. “It’s hard. It’s… I mean, I want to be able to let go. To let God take care of it, to make me new. You understand that more than anyone, I think, even though you’re not… exactly practicing.”

That was a mild way of putting it.

“I know what you mean, at least,” I said.

“I just… do the shadows ever go away?” he asked. “Ah, shit. You’re the last person I should ask, considering what you’ve gone through.”

“We’re a pair,” I said. “But in answer to your question, I don’t think so. I don’t think we can ever rid ourselves of the shadows. We just have to learn to live with them. Eventually, maybe—hopefully—they just become part of the furniture after a while. You’re not struggling to stay in the light every damned day like some strung out vampire. You wake up one morning and, for the first time, you don’t think about it.”

“And if I fail?”

“You can always start again. But, and I can speak from experience, it’ll be harder. It’s like starting from level one all over again in Super Mario Brothers. No extra lives. No save state.” That was, perhaps, the best metaphor I could have ever given him.

He perked up a bit, his eyes getting a mischievous glint to them. Forget that it was also his “I’m horny and I’m about to jump you” look. It was still endearing. I had to battle a thousand memories and haunted strains of songs I’d written about him, pining away like some lovesick teenager. I hated how long I’d taken to let him know how I felt, and hated even more that we’d never manage to get together. Not really.

Our was not a love of the ages, that’s for sure. I was pretty much at my worst when I was with him, and likewise for him. At the time, moderation just wasn’t in our vocabularies.

We walked slowly back to the venue, his arm around me.

“There is something I noticed,” he said as we rounded the corner and the breeze picked up. “About your songwriting. I mean, I  know I’m not exactly Mozart when it comes to composition, but you’re changing.”

“I am?” I asked.

“Well, for one thing, none of the songs are about me.”

I laughed. “Not directly.”

“Well, it’s the first album you’re not writing love songs to me, cleverly hidden–or hate songs. They’re about bigger things. Better things.”

I felt embarrassed to be so transparent, but grateful that he’d been able to see through my creative guise.

“You know,” I said. “Three years ago… that’s what I wanted. More than you in bed or you as a boyfriend or whatever. I just wanted you to notice.”

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “We all notice. You’re—what’s it that James calls you?—the fulcrum. That’s it. Your the very center, the sun. We’re just the planets in gravitational pull.”

“You’re totally mixing your metaphors.”

“Which is why I don’t write much, of course. I’m just the pretty voice.”

I squeezed his waist and felt, for probably the first time since we’d broken up, that we understood each other. That whatever had passed between us as lovers had changed; we’d managed the near impossible: we’d become friends.

Burning down the house. Again.

Posted in aldersgate cycle, blog, Rock Revival, WIP, writing by

Image by FEMA – public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

If you’ve been following this blog for any amount of time, you may notice that I occasionally redecorate. Well, I did it again. The last template was okay, but I wanted something cleaner that had a similar look without the clutter. I’m happy where it is, now! It’s not finished completely, as I’m working on a nice custom header graphic and whatnot. But the layout works, the fonts make me happy (which is a big deal) and… I even changed the blog’s tagline. It’d been a long time coming, and I wanted something that represented the multitude of things I write and post about. So, voila!

Writing has been slower, due in no small part to raising a baby and a very challenging six year old (you can read a little about what we’ve been going through here). I’m still not entirely back into the groove, but thankfully I had a few hours to myself yesterday in which I actually cleaned up my office space to allow for sitting. Even though I share the office with the baby now, it’s still as close to a place of my own that I’m going to get (she says typing as quietly as possible while the baby naps).

I’ve been writing in Rock Revival rather dutifully, and I’m proud of where I’ve gotten — while I wanted to be done (*insert maniacal laughter track*) by now, I realize that’s not possible. And that’s… deep breath… okay. I’ve got a novella to write which, potentially, could actually generate revenue and it’s a nice trip back into the world of the speculative. Also a nice trip back into the world of The Aldersgate which, hasn’t been traditionally published, was really the book/project that got me a foothold into all this to begin with. The novella is a prequel, taking place fifteen years before, give or take, before. There are a few familiar faces, but the majority of the novella follows Robin Creekwise, the diminutive inventor otherwise known as the Professor, and how exactly she got herself excommunicated from Queensland to Vell, a backwoods town in the middle of the Territories. It also tells the story of Queen Maelys and Kaythra Bav, and how their love and subsequent hatred tore things apart both politically and theologically. Tentatively it’s called The Wind Through the Wheat.

Anyway… Rock Revival currently stands at 37,000 — just under the halfway point. The band has boarded a plane for Kent, and they’ll be finishing up the album there. It feels like a natural place to pause while I work on this other project, and I’ll pick it back up in November.

Other things? It’s almost autumn, and I could not be happier about that. Yesterday I made pumpkin flax bread which, for my sister and I, is as close to summoning up the spirits of the season as can be. Filling the house with the scents of cinnamon and ginger and nutmeg? Yeah, it makes me want to dance around in a field of crisp leaves or something.

Rock Revival:

The Wind Through the Wheat:

The Perils of Early Success: Or, Writing With the Pointy End

Posted in aldersgate cycle, editing, fantasy, indigo and ink, peter of windbourne, pilgrim of the sky, publication, steampunk, ward of the rose by

So I started blogging “as a real writer” at the very beginning of 2008 in order to share a draft of my novel, The Aldersgate, with the world at large. I had already written two drafts, and then decided to start again and record the new chapters and launch them out into the world for feedback. It’s a steampunk western sort of fantasy story, with low magic and high politics and many point of views. You know; as you will.

While I commenced blogging in that first year or so, I had pretty immediate success with my short story writing and network building, and I felt like I was on top of the world. I was writing very unfettered, gamboling around in precious little Snowflake land (though I’d never have admitted it).

I was simply sharing my story. And I honestly believed that everything would fall into place. Having listened to a bit of Cory Doctorow I felt that, as long as what I was putting out there was good (which I was convinced it was) someone would find it, and I’d ride that golden pegasus out into the sunset and become a True Published Author.

People did come, it turns out. Wonderful readers, writer friends. And wouldn’t you know, but a year and a half later after I’d just about finished the entire podcast of the novel (and attracted quite a few positive responses which made me feel Truly Awesome) I was approached by an editor at Ace/Roc who wanted to listen to my story and read the manuscript. At first, I was entirely sure that the whole thing was a hoax and that someone was trying to mess with me. But no, she was totally legit. So in a state of utter glee and terror, I sent the manuscript to her, expecting to hear back in a few months. I knew that publishing was slow, so I didn’t expect a fast turnaround from a very busy editor. I was willing to wait for glory… or rejection. Either way, I prepared to wait.

No, I didn’t commit the first sin of writing. I didn’t stop writing. In fact, I wrote a few more novels: Pilgrim of the Sky, Peter of Windbourne, Indigo & Ink, and Queen of None. But the entire time I waited, I froze as a writer in many ways. To be honest with you (and me!) I don’t think I thought I had much room for improvement. After all, my book was with a Big Publisher. While I was realistic with myself, even preparing for rejection, I got lazy. Everything seemed to live in the shadow of that hope.

It’s been two years, now. And since you haven’t heard me jumping up and down and shrieking about a contract with a big publisher, you can imagine the result. Actually, I never heard back at all. I pinged the editor a few times, but never heard so much as a peep. Just… silence.

It takes a long time for hope to die. I can still tell you that I sent that manuscript out on June 23, 2009. For the first year, every 23rd was like a new mile-marker bringing me ever closer to the possible answer: yes or no. But by the 18th month, I was starting to doubt that it was ever going to happen at all. (I don’t even think about the editor and that hope these days, albeit in a passing, wistful sort of way.)

The thing is, well, life went on. Life got hard. And as life got hard, writing got harder. And it got harder to look at my own writing and be absolutely honest with myself, even after I stopped believing in the muse!

It’s funny how much something like this can impact one’s entire writing approach. Writing The Aldersgate was a mighty powerful experience. I was smitten with words, high on storytelling. And I think that comes through in the draft that’s out there on the internets (I’m not ashamed; the story has a lot going for it). People seemed to love the characters*, but the nuts and bolts of the story really need work. Work that for the last two years I haven’t given it. (Even though, on occasion, I tried.)

But I’ve always been someone who worked best with tough love. I was smart, but lazy, during school. I never pushed myself until teachers pushed back. “Any other student would have gotten an A on this project, but this isn’t your best work.” Even a resounding rejection of the manuscript would have most likely lit a fire under me.

But nothing? NOTHING? Nothing left too much room for hope.

Hey, I have lots of excuses why things have not gone as well as they did in the magical year of 2008, writing-wise. I have enough excuses to fill a damned book. But the only real reason that I didn’t grow as a writer is because I wasn’t honest with myself. I let hope cloud my better judgement.

Sure, I spent a lot of time editing and rewriting. But rewriting isn’t editing. Rewriting isn’t taking a cold, hard look at the way you write, which is the only route toward improvement and, well, success by extention. (Thankfully I’ve had the pleasure of working with some fantastic editors in preparation for Pilgrim of the Sky’s publication that really wonderfully helped in that respect, as well as advice from a seasoned pro writer friend that helps toward this rather jarring realization on my part, but that’s another post…) Rewriting is simply making another draft. Granted, it’s practice, and practice is part of the improving part, but editing is essential. You know, those fancy book editors don’t rewrite your book. They tweak it.

And that’s not to say that being a taskmaster is the only way to go. It’s got to be a combination. The successful, holistic approach to writing, revising, and editing, is a balance of fact and fancy. The fancy drives it, but the fact improves it. To use a martial simile: Your arm is the fancy, the creative drive, the raw excitement and energy and thought–but fact is your sword, cutting and shaping and ultimately turning your strength into something more. They work together, y’see? (It takes practice, but soon you’re carving through like a Braavosi.)

There is no easy path, it turns out. Would I trade early success for early struggle? I don’t know. But the thing is that early success can be maddening and counter-productive in its own right. (I’m admittedly  still a baby about rejections, probably because I didn’t get enough early on!).

My only hope for myself is that I achieve balance, and, more than anything that I find fancy again. Since I started work in December, fancy has been hard to come by; the muscles have gone weak. Fancy has to come first, before fact, otherwise progress can never be made. But it doesn’t always linger in familiar places. Sometimes you have to summon it up.

We all know that writing books is hard. Finishing books is harder. But the hardest part of all comes after all that. It’s being honest about the draft. And that honesty will usher in growth. For without growth, in any career or creative endeavor, nothing magic can happen.

* Much of this post was inspired by finding a trove of “pending” comments in the Aldersgate blog. For all my lack of growth, the experience of reaching readers who really felt a connection my story is not something I take lightly. I will finish the story.

Finding the power in rejection.

Posted in blog, fantasy, indigo and ink, publication, WIP, writing by

I would be a liar if I told you that rejection doesn’t matter, that every time a short story market or an agent lets me know my work isn’t for them, I don’t sulk a little. This last year rejection has set the tone for just about everything in my writing world. While I’ve had some agents express interest in future work of mine, I haven’t found a fit with The Aldersgate nor have I heard back from the editor who’s had it for almost a year. I haven’t talked about either of these things on my blog, really at all, though I’ve hinted at it.

Searching for agents is a bit of a surreal experience, first of all. To get your book into the hands of other people, you’ve got to find that one person who clicks with you. And though you may have written may other things, it’s that one book that’s got to do all the work for you. Jeff VanderMeer told me, of the agent search, that really the agent is auditioning for me, and that’s a good point–but unfortunately one that is hard to believe in this present market. It’s hard not to feel like a grain of sand in the sea when sending out those query letters, and it’s so easy to start second guessing. I mean, is anyone selling steampunk/fantasy/Westerns? Does it matter? Am I doing this right? Should I respond? Should I follow up? Am I over thinking this? Am I putting too much faith in the whole thing? Lather, rinse, repeat.

The fact that the book itself is with an editor at a Reputable Publishing House makes the whole situation even more difficult. I’d like to query other books, I would. But this is the book that’s with the editor, where it’s been for a year. Yes, I am aware that in all likelihood the book will be passed on, and I made my peace with that a long time ago.

I’m growing more and more distant from The Aldersgate and, given every chance–and every rejection–see so many things I want to fix with it. Pacing, length, plot details. It needs work. But when the editor emailed wanting to see a draft of the book, I jumped. Was it 100% ready? Hell no. Is it still a good story? I think so. But none of that is up to me at this point. I was so thrilled that anyone was interested in the book that I sent it off, blinded by excitement. I mean a real editor? A real, real one?

But, all this rejection and uncertainty can make for a miasma of self-doubt. And I will admit, there were a few months there last year where I was really in the dumps. I hadn’t started the agent search yet–which really only began in earnest two months ago–but having the book in the hands of the editor paralyzed me. I eventually got out of it and re-wrote Peter of Windbourne, but it wasn’t until this March (after the great carpal tunnel disaster of 2010) that I really snapped out of it. I started something new.

And it’s some of the best stuff I’ve ever written. I’m not saying this to sound full of myself, or to gloat. No, I think it’s important that writers get a perspective on their own work, their craft. They have to. Saying that everything is awesome is just as detrimental as saying that everything sucks. Dustman (which is totally not the final title) is a little more than half written and it’s the first ground-up fiction that I’ve written since Pilgrim of the Sky (Queen of None was there, too, but as it incorporates Arthurian mythology, the process of writing it was somewhat different).

Every book has a different zeitgeist. I wrote Queen of None as a way to cope with my sister’s cancer diagnosis. Pilgrim of the Sky was an attempt to satisfy a more indy vibe. The Aldersgate was my way out of post-partum depression. Peter of Windbourne was to prove I could write a epic fantasy that I created as a child and could pull off as an adult.

But I’m writing Dustman because I’m a writer. Because I’m a novelist. Because I have a thing for squid, broken romances, and gunslingers. And oddly enough, the rejections that have been (still) coming–and some of them have been very nice, I should add–have only fueled me to push myself with this story. To get it right. To delve deeper. To challenge myself.

And while that doesn’t mean the book has any more of a chance with agents or publishers, that doesn’t change the fact that I can still improve. That I am improving. I can still get better as a novelist–in fact, I can keep getting better. The only way to improve is keep writing no matter what. This is my craft, and though I’ve been writing the better part of my life in novel form, if I refuse to improve–if I start to believe I’ve plateaued–that’s death to my career. That’s the end, curtains.

My advice, in this long-winded manner, is to think of rejection as a lens pointing you to where you need to improve. Agents, publishers, readers… these people will give you new eyes to your work, giving you a real chance to get better. If you flag in the face of that criticism, you will fail. If you refuse to change, to grow, you’ll break. There’s such value, and such power, in the understanding that, no matter what–no matter how the industry changes or what the market is or who’s buying what–we, as writers, have the most power. We’re the ones the industry needs to thrive, and as we push ourselves to do greater and better things, we, in turn, can share greater and better things with the world.

We can always do better. And there’s a whole lot of freedom knowing that.

Cats, hands, and words

Posted in indigo and ink, steampunk, WIP, writing by

We’ve been looking for a new furry friend for the family since our beloved Minerva (the cat) passed away. We went back and forth between wanting to get a dog and a cat, and after every attempt to get a dog was foiled, we opted for the feline variety instead. I love dogs, and I love cats. But I know dogs are much more work. Our Calliope is a wonderful, special, marvelous dog. But she was a ton of work. I trained her from a puppy and it was exhausting–it was also before I had a puppy of my own (i.e. my son)! I just don’t think we’re up for that again right now.

So, we went to the SPCA of Wake County (which is a fabulous facility) today, after meeting some delightful kitties yesterday, with a few in mind. We ended up best matched to a medium hair orange tabby with the curious name of Grasshopper. We’ll be changing that, but she’s going to come home with us in just a few days. They have a potential ringworm issue in her particular room (the rooms for the cats are fantastic little kitty condos–quite a sight to see) but she should be clear soon, hopefully without a lye bath. But we’ll take her even if she’s stinky. I’ve missed having a kitty; every kitty needs a writer, after all. Once she’s here I’ll be sure to post pictures!

Today was also Mother’s Day, so that’s kind of special. My husband made marvelous filet mignon. My son was sick, and generally a little meanie head (he does not deal well with being sick, and takes it out on the world… at three that means a great deal of flailing and screaming bloody murder: tonight, when we were getting him in bed, he kept screaming at us, “This is not my favorite! This is not my favorite!” Yeah, buddy. We know.).

The hands have been okay. Not fabulous, but okay. I’ve had two great writing days; Friday night I had to stop because I was too tired to type any longer, and tonight I had to stop because my hands were starting to hurt. Still: good progress. The story is still moving well, and I am pleased. I only wish I could keep up. I will be patient. Sometimes steroids take a few days to really work.

Technically I wrote three chapters this weekend, which is the best in a long time. So maybe the hands are doing better than I give them credit for. Story wise there was some really odd stuff with the clockwork wolf, the introduction of a new diety, and a very uncomfortable scene with a character who looks like Jabba the Hut, except in human form. A bit of banter (in further Star Wars mode, Marna and Ash are starting to remind me of Leia and Han… which ain’t a bad thing in my book), and some cool exploration in Underally. Tension, tension building… next, a terrifying ride on the Clacker and a surprise ambush.

Now, to bed wi’ me. If it’s anything like this morning, the child will be up in seven hours. Ah, motherhood.

Rewiring the writing approach

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So, it’s been over a month and I’m still the gimpy writer. The wrists have certainly improved, but 99% of that has to do with, you know, not typing. I would be lying to say it hasn’t been beyond frustrating, especially considering the move and the many other things I won’t bore you with.

Suffice it to say, I’m having to change just about everything I thought I knew about writing. I had the formula down; I had the drive, the determination, the schedule. I was a writing writer, someone who sat down and just wrote, no matter what, every day. A huge accomplishment.

Then, my wrists gave out. 1,000 words a day is apparently too much, especially not counting all the freelancing I do. I’ve been delaying buying speech-to-text software because I simply don’t want to believe it’s that bad. A big part of me still thinks that I’m eventually going to wake up and sit down at the computer, and be without pain. That’s just not going to happen right now. So instead of having a goal of 1,000 typed words a day, I have 200. I can speak those, if I have to, while waiting for my new software (… the Mac enthusiast in me cringes that I have to install a Windows partition, but hey… it’s $100 cheaper this way, and money, you know, doesn’t grow on trees… at least not yet). Today, I’m typing a little more than that, but figured an update was worth it.

I can’t say that I’ve taken all of this well. It’s been heartbreaking for me. Though I do plenty of other stuff aside from writing, it’s by far my most favorite thing to do; it’s who I am. And while I wish I could say I’ve spent all this time writing novels in my head and planning great things, I will be honest: it’s been very foggy up there in my head. I’m sure I’m a little depressed, and with everything else going on that’s not surprising. But usually writing is my way out of that, and now thinking of typing for more than about fifteen minutes makes me want to cry.

I’m not letting it get me down. This injury won’t define me; it won’t stop me from telling stories. I don’t think anything could. But it’s teaching me a great deal about my process, and about “getting it right”. The truth is, there is no accounting for the sorts of things that happen in your life. You can scale the highest mountain only to find you can’t go back the way you came, or you’ve got to sit there and wait for a plane.  Or a zeppelin. I hope I’m waiting for a zeppelin…

One more time, with feeling!

Posted in blog, publication, writing by

In many ways, 2009 taught me about all the myriad things I don’t have control over. It’s been humbling, to say the least, to learn so much about this industry. It’s been a little embarrassing to admit just how much I didn’t know, walking in to 2009.

What I didn’t have in business savvy and general know-how, however, I made up for with perseverance in the writing department, something I have absolute control over. My mantra for 2009 was, certainly, Just Keep Writing. And write I did. A whole damn lot.

So, 2010 is already starting off with a lot of loose ends. But I’m still writing. This weekend saw the completion of a short story and a proposal. Now, I’m hunkering down to get back into The Ward of the Rose after a self-inflicted break at the end of December.

Still, I don’t think 2010 is going to be that different, in that the goal is the same as ever: to find homes for my books. But much of this stuff, well, I have no direct control over. I can’t force anyone’s hand. But I can be patient, I can continue to foster friendships and seek out new opportunities… I can keep writing.

So, the one goal for 2010?

Play it again, kid… but play it better.

Writer Resolutions and Echoes of Other Years

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The best part about having a blog is that it allows me to go back in time and laugh at myself. I used to do this with diaries in my youth, snatching up old (never completed) journals and then annotating with derisive commentary throughout. Most often, the marginalia was scathing, along the lines of “how could you ever love x” or “you silly, stupid git.”

While, thankfully, I grew out of that stage, blogging has served to chronicle my own personal writing journey over the last couple of years, first at The Aldersgate Cycle and now here at Writing Across Worlds. What hasn’t changed, however, are the cringe-inducing posts from yesteryear. Sure, only two years have gone by, but my goodness… reading posts from even a year ago really puts a bit of perspective on how things have changed.

Take this bit from a post called “The creativity curve, and time for the cure” from January 12, 2009, regarding my inability to sustain the writing groove:

Sure, I go through phases where I literally drip words. I write tens of thousands of words in a week; I am bombarded at every turn by plot twists, character dialogue snippets, and intriguing word combinations. I can’t escape thinking about what I’m writing if I tried (which, in the case of last night, kept me up way past my bed-time).

But then? It’s like someone quite surreptitiously turns off the lights, cuts the power, and takes away my wine. I sit down to write, and it’s void. A chasm. Emptiness, despair. My own little Swamp of Sorrows. Just for me. How lucky I am. Worse even, I look back at what I’ve written and cringe, feel ill, and have to suppress the desire to kill everything I’ve worked on up to that point with fire. Sulfuric fire. Or a lake of fire. Something along those lines.

I’m literally laughing out loud. At that point, I still believed in some perfect, alchemical mix for writing, some cosmic alignment of the stars.

Thankfully, I’ve learned that when it comes to writing, there’s nothing to it. I mean, there is a lot to it, but it’s not magic. It’s hard fracking work. It’s dragging myself to the computer when I don’t want to. It’s turning off the TV. It’s ignoring Twitter and Facebook. It’s simply treating writing like a profession rather than a hobby.

And that feeling of wanting to kill stuff, to delete it? Oh, that still happens. But thankfully, I’m not that precious about my stuff anymore. I’ve learned, however painfully, that sometimes writing does have to be flushed. Sometimes you’ve got to burn down the whole forest to allow for new growth. And it sucks. I just flushed 30K two weeks ago, I know how much it sucks. But it’s part of the game. Words are like raindrops. Sometimes you catch them with a sieve, sometimes with a glass pitcher; sometimes you need to just let them flow through your fingers and feel each and every one; sometimes you have to let them spill and start again.

The other thing I have just started to learn how to do is muster my confidence. Two years ago, according to this archived post, I was rewriting The Aldersgate from memory, hardly consulting the original draft (a process that took over a year, I should add). I worried constantly that the rewrite wasn’t good enough, and would often throw myself into fits of near madness and, more than anything, complete writing paralysis.

So, in the spirit of the season, I’ve come up with a few short resolutions, particularly good for the slightly published crowd, those of us who aren’t technically “new” but are still forging ahead.

  • Avoid writing paralysis: note the signs, note the triggers. Figure out what gets you to stop writing and avoid it, if possible. Remember that writing is work, and if work isn’t being done, it’s typically not anyone’s fault but your own.
  • Keep a steady course. In other words: be patient. Don’t burn out. Keep your eyes on that proverbial horizon. Time will pass, the waiting will end, and new routes will be clear. Just take your time, and keep writing.
  • Have faith in yourself. If you don’t believe in your book, no one else will. Be proud, not arrogant; be confident, not haughty.
  • Surround yourself with good influencers. That guy who writes about how much he hates to write? The acquaintance you met a few years back who’s calling the boom and doom of the publishing industry? Be wary of the channels around you and how they influence you. Sometimes it’s okay to be choosy.
  • Never stop learning. No one ever “gets” the publishing industry. It’s changing, it’s moving. Keep on top of things, or else lose your grip.
  • Read for joy. Don’t forget why you write in the first place. Allow yourself to be seduced by words every day. It’s where it all started, after all.

Getting Through The Writing Drought

Posted in fantasy, publication, WIP, writing by

By virtue of the holiday season, I have been doing little else but crochet and cook these last few days, leading to a whopping 0 progress in fiction.

I’m starting to get twitchy.

It’s not that I don’t love the holidays, my family, tradition, all those things. It’s not that taking a break might, in fact, be a pretty good idea; it is more than that. I need a break, but I’m not willing to let it go without a good share of bitching and moaning.

Since the youngest of ages, wandering around the playground clutching notebooks scrawled with imaginary worlds and adventures, I have sought out fiction as therapy. It’s become more than habit, it’s compulsion. Some days it borders on obsession, on addiction. Sure, that sounds terribly dark, but at least it’s productive. For years, writing was my secret, something I did apart from everyone else, my own silent center. Then, I started seeking out friends to help me, to come into my world to see if it held up. For a long stretch, I needed approval to keep writing, and eventually that left me with a very shaky foundation, because I didn’t believe in myself unless someone did…

I digress. The last few years have been remarkable, the last year the most exciting. I’m stubborn as hells, as Professor might say, when it comes to getting my work out there and treating my fiction writing like a job, keeping at it. I’ve been so stubborn that when I can’t actually get to it, I get very antsy.

But it’s okay to step back, I keep telling myself. It’s okay to take a break, to do other stuff that doesn’t include opening up Scrivener. But it’s a lot harder than I thought. As odd as it seems, I’m not sleeping well. My dreams are riddled with adventures, so much to the point that I’ve been waking up between them, mulling about them, and having a hard time going back to dreamland. It may be unconnected, but my dreamlife isn’t usually this exciting. Perhaps my misfiring brain is on the search for creativity, having not been able to find it as usual.

At any rate, there is a chance that over the next week or so, I’ll have virtually no chance to write. I rather like the idea of waiting until the New Year, taking a breather, and starting new. Blank slate, new goals, new approach. Or, since the last approach worked so well, the same old approach. Just a different view.

“There isn’t any turning back after this, Brickley,” said Sir Gawen. “You forsake all other ties, all other pledges, all other oaths.” The red giant of a knight had his hat off, tucked in the crook of his shoulder, and his eyes were focused on the horizon, now blushing pink in the sunset.

“I don’t reckon I swore any oaths,” Brick replied, sighing.

“You swear oaths you don’t even know, sometimes,” said Gawen, reaching up to replace his hat and smooth out his long red mustache. “And you carry them around with you wherever you go.”

  1. –From The Aldersgate: Chapter Thirteen: Initiation Rites