I'm a Guest Blogger!

This past weekend was a wonderful one for writing and kindred inspiration. My friend Amie (from iAMalive) came to visit me in Tulsa! And she asked me to write a guest post about it on her blog. What a pal, eh?

Here's a picture I stole from her, illustrating our time together. As you can see, Ophelia played a pivotal part in inspiring us to write.

So you should go check it out by clicking on this sentence.

Happy Thursday to you!

On Killing your Darlings & Traveling through Time and Space

Time flies, dunnit?

I've said before that I am an inconstant blogger, and I certainly won't take it back now. I hope you're all well out there. And I hope you've shaken hands with 2012 and found her to be charming.

I'm writing today on a subject I have recently had lots of first-hand experience with. It's the old revision tactic scientifically dubbed "killing your darlings." Familiar with it?

Given my druthers, I would always choose to edit like this:

Happy. Easy. Without any pain to myself or the manuscript. Just get rid of those dead leaves and weak sentences, and then I'm good to go. But it seems to me that the more I want to edit with the little pruning shears, the more I need to face the possibility that THIS is what really needs to happen:

I've recently been doing a lot of chainsawing. Consequently, I've killed a lot of darlings. (If you're foggy on this approach, follow this link.) I've been working on a YA fantasy novel for just over a year now, and after an autumn of garnering feedback from betas who read the draft, I found myself with a lot of ideas of ways to improve the book, but no real conviction about which way was the right one. And so, after a week or so of hideous panic, I made the decision to scrap the first third of the book and rewrite it from an entirely different point.

It felt like a setback, but I discovered right away that it was the right decision. Not because it allowed the book to begin in a more compelling and logical place (although it did do that), but because it loosened my death-grip on the petty things I had grown to love about the manuscript.

I don't know about you, but I love words. I love the way they interact with one another, like they're doing some kind of complicated dance on paper. Like most writers, I love to shape them into sentences and paragraphs and pages pregnant with meaning, and then sit back to watch them glitter. But too often I get attached, and it can take a chainsaw to separate me from a bit of prose I really like--even if the story would be better off without it. And that, I think, is what chainsaw editing is good for. It reminds you that your love for one darling may be choking the whole work. And once you learn to let go of one of the little things you're clinging to, you discover that it's much easier to let go of the next one.

And eventually, who knows? You may even find yourself in possession of that elusive lens we call Objectivity, and look at your work as a reader might.

On an unrelated note, I need to go public with some news: I have fallen in love with the Doctor.

I've resisted and resisted his invisible pull for years now, but about a week ago I finally gave in and started watching. In that brief time I have fallen head over heels, first for the Ninth Doctor, and now for the Tenth. (I am so immersed that I actually thought the whir of the push-vacuum at work was the sound of the TARDIS engine.) It's a glorious thing to find an untapped well of Nerddom simply waiting for you, don't you think? But oh, my poor, poor roommate... And I still have four and a half seasons to go!

 

So today's questions: How do you manage to look objectively at your work? Does it take chainsaws and darling-killing? And if you are afflicted, how do you manage to overcome Doctor Who Mania enough to live a normal life?

If You Are a Dreamer, Come In...

Dreams. 

They're feisty, elusive little things, aren't they? Anne Shirley once said, "It wouldn't do to have all our dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream about." And yet, it can also be detrimental to our poor little souls to have our dreams constantly denied. The book of Proverbs says, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when dreams come true, there is life and joy."

I don't know how you feel about the subject, but I tend to keep my dreams pretty close to the chest. For one thing, I know how vulnerable they are: some of the more fragile ones can be slayed by a single skeptical glance. For another thing, I tend to feel (erroneously, perhaps) that revealing them makes me seem weak, or even more seriously, that admitting I want them shows what a selfish prat I really am.

But I begin to wonder if I shouldn't hold them so close. I wonder if perhaps I ought to let them try their little wings from time to time. Because when it comes to other people, I find that I consider dreams to be among the most precious, sacred things the heart contains. Nothing connects me to another person faster than learning about their most cherished desire, even if that desire seems outwardly ridiculous. Almost always, I find myself saying, "Oh, you should!" Why? Because I believe it is important to dream. I believe it is imperative that we frail, ephemeral humans run headlong after the things tugging at our souls. How could we live full lives if we didn't?

So. Here are some of my dreams:

 

A wee cottage in the country...

 

with one of these,

 

and one of these,

 

and some of these,

 

where I could spend every morning doing this

 

and every afternoon doing this.

But of course, the dream that haunts me most looks like this:

Others I have cannot be captured so easily in images, but they linger just the same, whispering in my ear when I catch a glimpse of a sunrise, settling over my shoulders when I sit around a table with my family, brushing past my ear with the sudden strain of a violin.

Why do I bring all this up? Because I have begun to be convicted in the belief that it is of the utmost importance to encourage one another in our dreams. It's awful to see your dreams "deferred" (see this poem by Langston Hughes), but it is infinitely worse to have them scorned, discouraged, or even simply doubted. (Anyone who has ever had to explain their writing "habit" to a dubious acquaintance or extended family member understands the torment of that experience.) Conversely, the experience of being wholly and unflaggingly believed in is almost as wonderful as achieving the dream itself. When someone you love is willing to stand at your side in the face of grueling hard work and opposition, and say, "I know you can do this," you find, miraculously, that you can.

So I say to you now, do not be a doubter of dreams. Do not look into the soul of another human creature and say, "You can't." Because while it may only cause that dreamer to toughen her skin and overcome another battle against doubt, it might also break her. And this world is broken enough to be getting on with.

What say you? If you feel so inspired, share your own dreams on your blog and post a link here. I would love to come by and say, "You can."

A Revelation

Every once and a while I have one of those epiphanies that stops me dead in my tracks no matter where I am or what I'm doing, and makes me turn to whomever is closest (even if it's just my dog) and say, "OH MY GOSH. DO YOU KNOW WHAT I JUST REALIZED???"

Usually this turns out badly for me. Not only because you can never tell what poor, innocent bystander will fall victim to this verbal assault, but also because my revelations tend to be a little, er, shall we say, behind the times.

For example: When I was in college (college, mind you) I realized that the phrase "Take it with a grain of salt" was not in fact, as I had so long assumed, "Take it with the grand assault." This one rocked my world for at least a week.

A few years before this, I was made to understand that the large quantities of fizz produced in the quick pouring of a glass of soda did not result in the irrevocable loss of said soda, but merely indicated some kind of chemical transformation best known by mathematicians and NASA employees. (I had long been indignant at the idea that Coca Cola would sell a product which, if it were not poured slowly enough, would vanish in vast amounts and leave the purchaser with less than half of what they paid for.)

I recently had another revelation, and I hope this one is less embarrassing. It goes like this:

ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS

= 

SHOW INSTEAD OF TELL

If I were the sort of person who said OMG, I might say it now. For me, this is the best kind of epiphany. It takes something I've been hearing my whole life and links it with something I've been telling myself as long as I've been a writer. And the result is that both ideas are illuminated.

"Actions speak louder than words" is a phrase so overused by elementary school teachers that it draws eye-rolls from anyone over the age of fifteen any time someone so much as thinks it. But consider it in these terms: The reason we must SHOW our readers instead of TELLING them is that actions speak louder than words. Ha! Do you see it? New meaning altogether!

Writing a character's actions conveys your point so much better (so much LOUDER, you might say) than describing that character's feelings or mental progression, doesn't it? Ludwig's shoulders sagged and he dropped into the nearest armchair with a whimper is ever so much more effective than Ludwig was disappointed and tired and he didn't know what he was going to do, as we all know.

But holy mackerel! That's because actions speak louder than words! If I had really understood the depth of that phrase when my first grade teacher droned it to the class so many years ago, maybe I'd be a better writer today! (Are you sick of the exclamation points yet?)

Excuse me. I have to go gaze starry-eyed into space for a while. And then I have to go do some revising.

Thoughts?

Publication is a Moot Point

I don't think I'm alone when I say I've been feeling the pressure of the un/pre-published life lately. Bills are stacking up. Unfulfilled dreams are starting to get cranky. Unmet goals are rubbing saddle sores into my sides. I've not achieved what I hoped I would have by now.

Indeed, I'm not getting paid to write. I'm not published. I'm not agented. And sometimes these rankling facts infect me with an apathy that makes even writing a chore. Do you know what I mean? It looks something like this:

But here's the thing. It's the main thing. And somehow, in the middle of all my striving and longing and journeying and bleeding and trudging, it manages to be the thing I forget most.

NONE OF THAT MATTERS.

No, I'm not crazy. Let me say it again. None of that matters! Not a bit! Not a whit! Not a Dr. Seussian Snit!

Sure, it'd be great to get paid to write. I'd love to have my books published. And I would be enthralled to work with an agent who liked my writing enough to champion it. But none of those things are the reason I write. None of them are why I started writing in the first place. See where I'm headed yet?

I just finished reading Emily of New Moon, a book by L.M. Montgomery (you know, the wonderful woman who gave us Anne Shirley?), and in it I found a certain amount of refreshment as a writer. As it happens, Emily Starr, the protagonist of the book, also longs to write for a living. But when her teacher demands to know why she wants this, he leads Emily to the heart of the matter--for her, and for all of us. He says:

"Tell me this--if you knew you would be poor as a church mouse all your life--if you knew you'd never have a line published--would you still go on writing--would you?"
"Of course I would," said Emily disdainfully. "Why, I have to write--I can't help it at times--I've just got to."

For me this conversation was like a knock over the head. Never mind that I've said this very thing many times before (I have to write! I'll go on doing it forever whether I get paid for it or not!); somewhere in the wild scramble for the prize of publication, I'd temporarily lost sight of it.

But I didn't start writing because I wanted to be published, or because I thought it would make me rich and famous, or because writing somehow impresses people. I didn't even start because I loved it--although that certainly plays a helpful role. It was because the stories in my head were all but leaking out of me, suffocating me with their need to be told. It was because I HAD TO.

And I think that's what we have to remember. Because that's the only thing that will keep you happy in your work. Doing it because you must--and because you love it. And if publication happens along the way, well... that's a lovely bonus.

What do you think? Why did you start writing? Do you find yourself getting distracted and consumed by dreams of agents and editors and publishing contracts so that your writing takes the back seat? Please share!

Why What We Do Is Hard

You know it. I know it. And very often, we start to let the difficulty of writing give birth to insecurities that plague our whole existence. It isn't bad enough, apparently, to consider giving up on writing; we must also degrade ourselves into believing we are bad at life in general.

The funny thing is, this problem seems to extend well beyond the glorious milestones of representation and publication. Beth Revis, author of Across the Universe, admits to her insecurities on her blog, here. Jody Hedlund, award winning author, shares many of hers here. And the Authoress of Miss Snark's First Victim confesses her own fears here.

I recently read a Slate article by Michael Agger which shed some light on this widespread issue of self-doubt in writers. In it, Agger explains what should be a very simple and obvious fact to those of us who write: writing is hard. Here are some highlights from that article:


"Writing extended texts for publication is a major cognitive challenge, even for professionals who compose for a living... Serious writing is at once a thinking task, a language task, and a memory task." (Ronald Kellogg, Professional Writing Expertise)


It requires the same kind of mental effort as a high-level chess match or an expert musical performance... Kellogg terms the highest level of writing as "knowledge-crafting." In that state, the writer's brain is juggling three things: the actual text, what you plan to say next, and—most crucially—theories of how your imagined readership will interpret what's being written. A highly skilled writer can simultaneously be a writer, editor, and audience. (Link)


I don't know about you, but I find these passages to be both comforting and liberating. Writing is a highly solitary craft, and when you hold yourself to a high standard, it is quite easy to become discouraged; you rarely have someone next to you all the time to pat you on the back and say, "Hey, you're doing just fine! This is hard stuff, you know!" And the moment you indulge the whiny little voice in your head complaining about how difficult writing is, you start to feel like a wimp.

But isn't it nice to hear someone else verify that, yes, this is in fact a complicated thing you're trying to do?

It's easy to start feeling like a dunce when your work isn't measuring up to what you want it to be, but sometimes you have to remind yourself that it's okay to be where you are right now. 

That doesn't mean we should cut ourselves any slack in what we expect from our (slightly overtaxed) brains. It just means we shouldn't start allowing ourselves to feel inadequate just because it takes us awhile to get to where we want to be. Because if we continue to work at it, we will continue to make progress. And despite the insecurities, despite the difficulty of it all, writing is in fact very rewarding work. Otherwise, why in blazes would we be doing it?

Take this advice from Lois Peterson: "The more you write, the easier it gets; the more you write, the better it gets. So just write the damn thing!"

What about you? Regardless of where you are in your writing journey, do you feel plagued by insecurities from time to time? How do you cope with them? And what do you do when you discover that writing is indeed very hard?

Manuscripts Are Like Children

Happy Thursday to you!

I am pleased to say that last week's begging and pleading worked out very well. The readers who volunteered to take SUNCHILD to their bosoms and thump all the hiccups and burps from her tender little frame were more plentiful and talented than I could have ever hoped. It delights me to know that she is in such capable hands.

Of course, she is only in those hands because I have at long last relinquished her from my own. Which brings me to the point I'd like to discuss (on the metaphor I've already started, because it works pretty well): What do you do with yourself when your baby goes into the world for the first time?

Now, I've never given birth to a human child before. I haven't given birth to an animal child either, although I've found myself in the position of mothering two different baby-beasts in my adult life.  But I have now conceived, carried, birthed, and nursed five full novels into maturity, two of which (and now three) have left me to go striding out across the wide world to seek their fortunes.

I confess this loss to have a strange effect on me.

The first thing that happens once I tie up all the fragmented ends of a young manuscript--brush its hair, you know, and tidy its outfit and wash its face--and send it off into someone else's care is that I feel a miraculous sense of relief. The thing is done! I think to myself, breathing my first deep breath of freedom and standing up from my computer to see if my numb limbs still function properly. I can do anything I want! I can watch a movie! I can eat a sandwich! I can change out of my ratty t-shirt and go out on the town!

But the moment this sense of possibility breaks over me with all its brilliant rays, I remember the list that has been accumulating for months as I have inched, slothlike, toward this stage of manuscript near-completion. The list includes things like, "Pay rent" and "Buy dog food" and "Wash your hair," and it goes on for pages and pages--which are of course scattered over my entire apartment, on various scraps of trash or folded post-its, and which could not all be located even if I had the motivation to try. So my raptures are extinguished as quickly as they ignited, and I merely replace one ratty t-shirt with another and set to finding and carrying out the list.

By the time the list has been reasonably reduced, though, I find that something strange has happened to me. I no longer have the urge to watch a movie or make a sandwich. My desire to wear something socially acceptable and go out in public has vanished. I can think of only one thing I truly want to do: Write.

This stage of the process is called MANUSCRIPT WITHDRAWAL. During this stage, a writer experiences selective memory loss with regard to the manuscript they have released into the wild: they can no longer recall the feeling of murderous frustration they experienced when gazing upon that stubborn section that refused to comply to their wishes; they have no memory whatsoever of the grueling headache that plagued them during their last week of revisions; most remarkably of all, they cannot imagine what would have possessed them to daydream of time spent away from the project, when the only thing worth doing in the world was--and IS--spending time on that manuscript!

I have felt symptoms of this illness coming on in the last few days, usually manifested in periods spent staring listlessly at my desk, wondering if I should do something, but not knowing what that something might be. And I know how it goes. Before long, I'll delude myself into thinking I want that annoying, time-devouring child back.

Which of course I do. 

But I still had better not waste this precious time I have now. So. What do YOU do while you take breaks from manuscripts? Start another project? Take some intentional time away from writing? Fuel yourself into productivity by means of bribery, threats, or coercion?

And if you have no manuscript, but you have other kinds of babies (humans, animals, chia-pets, etc.), how do you get some healthy distance from them, and refresh yourself while you are apart?

I want to know.