Step Three - Writing to Learn

I enrolled in a creative writing class because I decided the early demise of books 1 & 2 was totally related to a bad case of writer’s block. Oh, hell, I’ll be honest. I wasn’t just blocked, I was bloody-well constipated. It’s enough to be word-stymied. Try having a constipated imagination.

 ‘You can’t spend all your life in fantasy,’ I’d reasoned twenty years earlier. Kids had to be picked up. Meals had to be made.

I’d quelled my imagination and let it wither.

My heart was doing the two-step when I walked into the class. I was early but that meant I could pick the best seat and watch as people walked in. Younger than me, younger than me, maybe the same age as me, oh, wait - much older than me!

And then my prof walked in. I’d thought she’d be a benign spirit, who’d smile sweetly and occasionally pat my head. A bit of an earth-mother. That’s not what I got. Instead she was youthful, and exacting, and yes, wise and sensitive, too. In her class, I learned about word count, self-editing and the power of a critique.

The first request was to describe a bedroom in 250 words. I took that literally and edited it down to 249 words. I learned a lot about self-edit that week.

For the next assignment, I had to write a scene in which the main character felt emotional pain. I spent 20 hours on it; gathering up words like loose confetti, trying to stick them together so they’d form a recognizable shape, all the while searching for an elegant way to infuse emotion. 250 words. One scene, little-to-no dialogue.

But I did it. And felt proud, even though I was not the best writer in the class.

The requests got harder. Using mostly dialogue, write a scene that shows conflict. Provide us with a 500 word scene revealing a pivotal moment between two people using description and dialogue. Take one of your shorter pieces and expand it to 500 words. Now, revise it based on the class comments. Do not exceed your word count.

And then…read it out loud to the class and sit silently and appreciative as people critique your piece. No excuses, no explanations. Sit and absorb. Listen carefully.

Harder still.

That class taught me a lot. First, the power of the impersonal, balanced critique. Second, self-editing is part of writing. And third--

You have to write to learn how to write.

There is no short-cut.

Kind words, from a kind man

Just as I was at my apex of Thinking About It, I read one of the best books I’ve ever read in my life. It’s called THE NAME OF THE WIND, by Patrick Rothfuss. I picked it up because it had a label on it “Susie Recommends” (which means that the salesclerk Susie had read it and thought it swell). I turned it over and read the blurb. Whoever wrote the blurb on the back of that book is one hellishly good blurb-writer. In addition, the novel was heavy, which was good, because it wasn’t too badly priced, which meant, hey, I got a deal. And better yet, there was no bare-chested guy with a sword on the front of  the cover. Okay. Sold.

It was, and is, a superb book. Imagine yourself sitting in your favourite chair at dusk. A man begins to tell you a story. His voice is deep and soft and layered, and you just find yourself transfixed in your chair, inwardly praying that he’d never stop talking. Hoping beyond hope, that the story will never end. That’s the type of book Patrick Rothfuss wrote.

I liked the book so much that I got out of bed at 1:00 a.m. and went down to the web to find out when book two would come out. And then, because I was so totally bowled over by Kvothe’s story, I wrote my first fan email. I let myself go on that email. I told him exactly why I liked the book, and why I was thrilled to have read it, and a whole bunch of other stuff. It was, as emails go, fairly long. I hit send and felt relieved.

A week later, I opened my email. Patrick Rothfuss had written back. Real authors do that? I sat down. Read the entire email so slowly, my dog aged another canine year. He said, (and yes, I still have the email), that it was a ‘lovely, lovely email’, and that -- oh wait this deserves its own line --

“you’re not a bad writer yourself.”

There it was. In black and white. He thought I could write.

And you know what? That tiny whisper in my ear was all I needed to start again. I wasn’t just a wordless matron with a tribble who’d forgotten her dream and was standing on the crossroads between a lifetime of Oprah and a life-quest of writing.  I was someone who’d written a ‘lovely’ email, and Patrick Rothfuss thought I wasn’t a bad writer. Small words, written by a kind man, but for me, it was a moment. Another one of those ‘well, look at that’ moments.

I was looking for a omen, and I had found it. So, the next step?

Look for inspiration  and believe in yourself.

Of course, I did more than clutch a crystal in my hand and hope for good stuff to come my way. Next time I’ll tell you what work I needed to do toward payment for my inspiration. In the meantime, go read The Name of the Wind. You’ll like it, even if you don’t like fantasy.

Thinking About It

Please note: as a new blogger, I hadn't realized that 2 posts on one day would be lined up one on top of the other. This post was written earlier than the one above. Read it first, or if that's impossible, read it knowing that I meant you to read it first.

If you’ve been following my journey you know that I’d hit another speed bump and broken my story’s struts.

I had a bad case of I-write-crap-itus.

What to do? What to do?

I fell into my ‘Thinking About It” phase.

Just to be real clear, thinking about writing isn’t the stuff you do when you’re teasing out a back story or working out motivation. It’s unfocussed. Diffused. It’s akin to deciding you’ll go on a diet on Monday. You hold the promise of the finished book in your mind, but lightly. It floats in mid-space, like a child born without conception or gestation. And the more the promised novel hovers there, all perfect in aspect and execution, the more you worry that you'll never come up to snuff. You haven't got the writing chops.

Thinking about it is not helpful. It just adds more insecurity, more confusion.

Did you see any mention of writing in the title? Thinking about it doesn’t qualify as writing. Write crap if you need to at first.

Just write.

 That's what writers do.

Even with a case of crap-itus.

Step Two - Following the Right Wizard

I’m a huge fan of Jim Butcher and I’m going to say it flat out--I love his character Harry Dresden. Who wouldn’t?  Harry’s a wizard. He's smart, sarcastic and noble. Add it up, and he's damn near irresistible.

Take C.S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower, strip him of his uniform, and you have the same sort of mythic hero. All right, I can agree it’s a stretch. Horatio Hornblower is a laconic, naval officer during the Napoleonic Wars. Harry’s a quip-tossing wizard from Chicago. But they’re the same type of man. They doubt themselves, constantly. Despite that, they’re the type of guy you’d pray to have beside you when the world is falling down around you. Brave. Capable of seizing the moment. Stoic. Unflinching. Rule breakers who don’t knuckle their eyes and go boo-hoo when it comes time to pay the price for their transgressions.

Both characters had something else similar - they were created by talented authors who made you believe. Different writing styles, different genre, but the same magic. With C.S. Forester, it’s the sound of sails snapping to the wind. With Jim Butcher, it’s the scent of  sulphur; it’s the perfect detail that shuts down your disbelief.

Yes, I’ve gone off on a Jim Butcher tangent, but there’s a reason.

I was licking my wounds. How was I going to drive the Leigh-bus to publishing success if I blew my tire at 10K?  I still wanted to write a book, even if my storyline resembled a tribble. What I needed was someone to break the writing process down for me -- preferably someone with whom I felt a deeper connection than an anonymous how-to book writer.

Yup, enter Jim Butcher.

I’d finished the latest Harry Dresden book, and was on his site, trying to find out how much longer I had to hold out before his next book was published. And lo and behold (yes, it felt faintly prophetic), I noticed a link to Jim Butcher’s old blog, wherein he laid out his thoughts on story craft. I printed out the whole damn lot, took scissors to it so that I could put it in reading order, and inhaled. A plan, I thought with an evil grin. A route. I hit the dining table with paper and pens and tape and tea and cookies. I made notes and I thought myself well equipped.

I started again. A new setting. Another type of world. Same character.

This time I got as far as 20K before my words spluttered out like the last bit of oil in a hurricane lantern. My brain didn’t even bothered admonishing me. It just patted me on the shoulder, told me not to stay up too late, and waddled off to its bed.

I’ll always be grateful to Jim Butcher, who showed me that his way of getting from the first word to the last one. He kept me from shutting down after my first defeat. I'm glad he posted those thoughts. I tried to use them, but discovered his way was not my way.

Lesson for this one?

There is no perfect way to write a book.

You have to find the things that work for you.

Now, because you’ve been so darn patient and read all the way to the end, here’s the link: http://jimbutcher.livejournal.com/

In Between Step One and Two

I was off the couch, and finally on my feet again. But then came the tricky part -- seating myself behind the keyboard and writing. What was the first issue? My blithe confidence was gone. Fifteen years ago, it had felt easy; words streamed off my fingertips. I even had proof:  200 pages of easy, stuffed in a cardboard box in my closet. But now I was paralysed with self-doubt. Just the thought of finding that first paragraph…hhhmm..perhaps I could just skip that part, and pick up where I left off in the old manuscript?

I read it.

Two things were instantly clear. I really liked adverbs back then. A lot. And I needed to start fresh, as my original plot about a virgin caught on a pirate ship felt a tad dated. Besides it didn’t fit the insistent voice whispering in my ear. I needed a new tale, one without sabres.

Also, I was aware of another issue that might prove to be a tiny hiccup on my path toward becoming the great Canadian writer.

I’d lost a large chunk of my vocabulary. Misplaced, forgotten, lost, I don’t care what you want to call it, but my language skills were as gone as my twenty-seven inch waist. Think of it as a case in de-evolution. I’d been a stay-at-home Mom for twenty years. The first crack started with Sesame Street, and by the time I knew all the words to The Wheels on the Bus, I was well on my way to mushy brain. My skill in description, and my ability to attach the right word to an object had eroded. When I wanted something, I’d point to it. It made things faster.

Well, there was no way out of it. I’d have to try to write and see if I could coax the words back to my fingers. As for worrying about coming up with interesting storyline, I decided to consult the experts. I went in search of a how-to book. In the store, I scanned the titles. Conflict and your Character? Writing Believable Motivation? Character Arcs? As I flipped through the books, my story concept began to feel like a tribble. It made interesting squeaking noises while balanced on  my palm, but other than that, it was starting to look a hell of a lot like my Mom’s old faux fur throw rug. 

Which left me back at home, without a manual, staring at the blinking cursor. To hell with it. I started writing. The words flowed, until I hit 10K and went splat. It just dried up overnight. I could not put another word down.

And at that, my brain said, ‘Sod you, Mate, this is too hard. I’m going back to the People magazine.’

Lesson from this?  There isn’t always a straight path from concept to book completion. Be prepared for one or two roadblocks.

Inevitably the biggest one will be yourself.

Step One

I gave up on the dream.

Twenty years ago I decided writing 'the’ book would have to wait until the kids were school aged. And then stuff happened which made writing difficult, and for various reasons, I gave up on the dream.

The kids grew up. The garden flourished. The dogs aged, and so did I.

About 4 years ago, I was laying on the couch watching Oprah. I’d seen the show before, but even so, I was watching it again. Flat on my back. With the remote in my hand and probably some chips balanced on my stomach. And the thought occurred to me:  I could lay here for the rest of my life watching Oprah. Essentially waiting to die. Watching Oprah.

No offence Oprah, but no thanks. I opened a drawer, took out an old partly finished manuscript, and thought, maybe I can do this again.

Going into it, I knew it would be difficult. First off, I didn’t have the ‘great idea.' I had a character and a desire to write again, but that was it. No great concept. No ‘wowser’ flash of inspiration.

You know what? Waiting for the great idea is really dumb. Don’t do that. Start writing. The great idea will catch up.

Okay, so back to me...I had scared myself silly with the thought of the ‘great book.’ The only way around that was to give myself some slack. I decided to write ‘a’ book, not ‘the’ book. I’d make an effort to do a good job of it, so I wouldn’t be embarrassed if someone read it. But it was just for me. I just wanted to have a dream again, and to be able to say one day--

Once, I wrote a book.

I wasn’t even going to tell anyone about it.

A lot has changed since then. I don't write casually anymore. It’s my job and yes, perhaps, my obsession. But still, some things have stayed the same. Once in awhile I watch Oprah.

Why am I telling you this? Because I needed a shape for this blog - some common theme running through it.  Pets are good, but my spaniel is really lazy, and there’s only so many stories I can spin about him. I don’t have many great thoughts. I don’t cook. Well, I do, but I hate it.  My old hobbies are faintly musty and boring. I read a lot, but so do many people.

But I do have a story to tell you. About breathing life into old dreams and how along the way, I found myself again. Over the next couple of months, I’ll tell you how I came to be here - a writer with a finished manuscript and a contract with the amazing Deidre Knight - and from there, we’ll see where we go. 

If you want to write a book, the first step is:

Get up off the damn couch. 

The Dress

I don’t like New Year’s Eve. I came to that decision twenty-eight years ago as I considered the cowboy hat perched on my date’s head. The hat should have warned me. We were more than a thousand miles from any ranch, and as far as I could tell, my  date had never branded the rump of a steer or, for that matter, settled his own in a saddle.  The more I stared at that hat, the more I found myself thinking about horses, and donkeys and asses.

I was also thinking that I was going to have to take my coat off. We were standing in the split level’s microscopic hall, and all I could see were feet.  There wasn’t a heel among them; unless I was being charitable, and I wasn’t feeling charitable. No one was wearing what I deemed a party shoes – spiked heels and a few straps. And worse,  the hostess who watched me from the top of the stairs was the type of girl I’d learned to be careful around. She was wearing a white shirt under a pink fuzzy sweater and a modest black skirt. Since it was her house, she’d forgone shoes. She was wearing a pair of house slippers.

My date turned for my coat. Conversation petered out as I slithered out of my coat.

He’d asked me to a party. A New Year’s Eve party. This did not qualify as a party. This was a few old friends gathered in a  living room drinking (oh someone shoot me) kahluaa on ice. This was a world of crew neck sweaters and dusty rose house paint.

Clearly, my dress had been invited to the wrong party.

That dress. It had more slits than seams. It glittered. It showed thigh, the ridge of my spine,  and the shadow between my boobs.  It was a great dress if you were feeling slightly risqué for a big party. It was  a horrible dress if you were sitting thigh to thigh on a living room couch, beside married guy #1 and married guy #2. 

Their wives glowered at me all night.

So, here’s what that taught me. To be charitable to the girl in the wrong dress. To only blame myself if I answered the door in a pair of new house slippers with an 8.99 price sticker still stuck to the sole.  And that I was truly capable of making a New Year’s Resolution and hanging on to it.

As the girls talked about people I didn’t know, and their men talked about cars I cared nothing about, I thought, don’t do it. Don’t go out on New Year’s ever again.

I haven’t.