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Gut-Wrenching Romance

This weekend my boss went to Laser Quest with his ten year old son. That’s a weird way to start a blog post about romance, but there it is.

(Fun fact–my first romance novel was inspired by something my boss said.)

The romance doesn’t come from my boss, or his son, or even Laser Quest, really. But those things spurred my thinking.

I’ve played laser tag exactly once in my life. It was a snowy, winter evening in Colorado, and I was a teenager.  A lovelorn teenager, as was typical for me in that time of my life. I don’t remember the game very much. It’s all a blur of shadows and neon, pretzels and Pepsi.

What I do remember is the ride home.

I sat in the back seat. The object of my (at the time) eternal love and devotion sat in the seat directly in front of me. I could see the way his neck sloped into the collar of his jacket, the fringe of blonde hair, his freckles. All of this, so close, just six inches of foam and a million miles away.

Right before I started high school my parents moved to the middle of nowhere. This meant that any kind of activity that involved driving into ‘the city’ inevitably entailed a long car ride, half an hour at least. Throw in snow, and a bunch of teenagers happy to be away from home, and the drive can easily streeeeeetch out.

At some point during this drive, and don’t ask me how because for the life of me I cannot remember, my hand wound up on his shoulder, and his hand wound up on mine.

That’s it, folks.

But for a girl full of butterflies and self-doubt like myself, that touch was a revelation. I survived on the memory of that touch for months, because after that, affection was not very forthcoming from that particular arena. It was the MO of our interactions, from where I stood. A dance that I won’t describe here, and now.

So there I was, this morning, eleven years after the fact, folding hospital gowns, thinking about how cute it was that my boss played laser tag (and schooled the younger kids, apparently) and wham, this memory hits and for a moment I am breathless. I pause. I look around, and consciously reorient myself. Because the emotions attached to that memory were life and death, end of the world stuff.

And isn’t that what being a teenager is about?

I’m revising my YA fantasy novel right now. As I recently told a friend I need more Bad Guy, more Self-Sabotage, and more Romance.

I need more of what I felt, remembering that long winter drive. I need the truth of it, injected into my character’s relationships. And maybe, I’ll let Sydney get what she wants.

At least, for a little while.

Our work needs these intense emotional experiences. Have you been working on anything lately that forces you to face these deeper, possibly buried, emotions?

Photo used under creative commons license from kreg.steppe

 
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Posted by on January 23, 2012 in discovery, writing

 

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From Idea to Story: Thoughts and Exercises

This post was inspired by my new Tumblr, where I’ll be throwing things that inspire me. If you want a peek inside my brain hole, feel free to click on over.

Creative people are often asked where they get their ideas from. I think anyone who has been writing for a while will know what a strange question this is, though I admit to having asked the same thing myself a few times. The question usually isn’t–where do the ideas come from? It’s more, how do I use these ideas, and make them more than snippets? How do I flesh this scrap out, build it into something that will move people, delight people, intrigue and excite people?

JK Rowling said she had the first bits of her ideas about Harry Potter when she was on a long train ride. She didn’t have any pen or paper with her, and so she was forced to mull these ideas over in her head, stringing things together for hours on end without the benefit of being able to put anything down in black and white. Her method, whether by intention or because of circumstance, was essentially daydreaming. Prolonged periods of daydreaming. And I think that is the root of the creative process. We have to give ourselves room to dream. And then we have to anchor those dreams to some kind of reality.

So how did this wildly successful author come up with her ideas? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she took them and created a world out of them. And there are at least as many ways to do this as there are authors. I’m still finding my method, that tried-and-true process that works every time.

I think I’m on a wild goose chase. I’m sure as I grow both as a writer and as a person, what works fr me will change. But that’s good! It forces me to try new things, and occasionally stumble upon something new. And the whole point of being alive is to learn, to live, to grow.

Here are a few things that work for me right now. Who knows? Maybe they’ll spur something in you, too.

Creating Characters From People

It’s cheating. I know. But it’s the best and worst kind of cheating there is. We all know people with idiosyncrasies that drive us up the wall, or make us want to study them like animals in a lab. Or something like that. And when it comes to creating believable, interesting characters you could do a whole lot worse than picking them from the ripe field that is your life.

Now, I’m not recommending trying to put Dad into your story whole cloth. That won’t work. It can’t. Human beings are so intricate and complicated that any facsimile we try to create will inevitably come out forced. Instead, try inserting Dad’s laconic nature into the best friend of your main character. Or his love of puzzles into the villain. In doing this, you inject something familiar into this character. You’ll know, from experience, how this aspect of a personality works, and it will be easier to conjecture. And by using just one piece of the person, you avoid the “OMG you put me in your book and I’m a jerk! What do you think of me?” problem.

Who is This Going to Hurt Most?

So you’ve got this awesome idea for a world where people literally share one heart, and if they don’t find their mate before a certain age they start to die. Great. Now, you go to choose a main character and–you find the middle-aged woman comfortably married with three children who have been linked with their mates since birth. Hmm…I could think of a couple of ways you could use this woman, but I don’t think she’s MC material for this story.

How about the CEO of a company in charge of finding people’s mates? If he fails, well, there goes his commission! Again, not a strong candidate.

Or how about the girl who’s fallen in love with her best friend, who gets murdered. And then she finds out her mate is the guy responsible for the murder. Now this has potential.

Who does your idea hurt? How can you make it hurt worse? I’ve mentioned this here before, and it applies as much today as it did a hundred years ago and will a hundred years in the future–put your character in a tree and throw rocks at them. But before you get them up there, find the character who has trouble climbing trees, find the character with thin skin, the character scared of heights and projectiles. The connections will start coming, growing like sinews between pieces of your ideas until you have something vaguely story shaped.

Randomize

Then, if you get really stuck, do something crazy. This is an exercise borrowed and tweaked from Holly Lisle (who has a whole, comprehensive course about how to take an idea and make it into a book).

Take a magazine. Rip out a bunch of pictures. Scatter them over your floor. Start throwing things at your impromptu collage. A penny will do. Wherever that penny lands, let that inform your next scene.

For example, let’s say you’re writing a far-future hard SF. I have no experience in this genre, so excuse any unintentional foot-in-mouthing I may commit. You’ve just massacred an issue of Vogue, so you have a spread of watch ads, fashion shoots, and the like. Your penny lands on this*:

Congratulations! Your characters have just discovered a new alien race! Or perhaps that trunk she’s sitting on contains the WMD your hero will have to wrest from the grips of evil. Or this is the villain disguised as your hero’s long-lost sister, dropping in for a none too friendly visit. There are a dozen ways you can take this particular picture, easy, and this picture is pretty…well, boring.

The ideas are everywhere. It’s the connective fibers that are harder to come by.

*photo ripped shamelessly from the internets.

Also, I’m not affiliated with anyone. Any links are free from outside influence.

 
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Posted by on January 12, 2012 in creating, planning, writing

 

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First Publication! And Happy New Year!

Yeesh. It’s been nearly a month since I last posted, and I don’t even have NaNoWriMo to blame.

All that aside, I have excellent news! My short story “The Nightmare Eater” has been published and released by The Colored Lens. You can download it and read it (among several other surely excellent stories) here.

This is my first official publication! I have another story coming out early next year, but this one…dang. It’s a cool feeling. Like, very shiny and fluttery. It is the first step on my path to total world dominion! (Or a publishing deal that will keep me in fish&chips and gin for the rest of my natural life.)It’s nice to be going into 2012 with a notch in my belt. I think it bodes well for the year.

This is a big one, guys. If everything goes according to our plans, by this time next year I will be writing from a tiny apartment somewhere in Japan. Caleb will be doing what he loves, and I will have more time than ever to devote to that whole fish&chips aspiration. With the new year comes the expectation of resolutions. I’m personally not a fan of resolutions, as I see them more like ongoing actions than things to be achieved. Which is good and all, but I’m much better at getting things accomplished when I have goals. Do XYZ by 123, or x number of times per month/week/year.

(Confession: When I was younger, probably between the ages of 11 and 16, one recurring resolution that I dutifully scrawled in my diary was :Be nicer. I have since abandoned that resolution. Now, pardon me while I eat your face.)

But goals! I do well with goals. And I’ve got a few good ones lined up for the coming twelve months, a few of which I’ll share with you here.

  • Revise “The Absinthe Gang” and start querying editors.
  • Learn enough conversational Japanese to get by.
  • Use the perfumist and herbalist classes I signed up for.
  • Write a short story using some of what I learned in aforementioned classes.
  • Keep track of my reading. I’m thinking I’ll either utilize GoodReads more, or keep a spreadsheet.

There are more, because I’m nothing if not ambitious. I’m going into 2012 focused on my writing and on Japan, which is similar to where I was last year. Only now I’ve been through ClarionWest, I have my first publishing cred with another in the works, and Caleb has applied to JET (!). It’s interesting, seeing things move forward like this. For a while, aspects of my life felt stationary. Writing, for example. After letting my mad skillz lie fallow for several years, it took a while for me to get back to where I’d been, and then another long while before I was anywhere decent. I know I still have a long way to go, and that I will always find something new to learn, but it is crazy heartening to see how far I’ve come.

I’m not the only one kicking ass and taking names. Click here to check out fellow CW alum Jenni’s post on the awesomeness that is my class of ClarionWest. Mega fist bump!

How have you progressed this last year? What goals are you setting for the coming year?

Photo used under creative commons license from: graciepoo

 
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Posted by on December 31, 2011 in career, discovery, planning

 

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I am a turtle…with jetpacks


Including today, there are three days left inside the window of NaNoWriMo. I ran into a fellow NaNoer at a coffee shop yesterday, who intended to write 10,000 words before he went home. This is the time when that kind of mad creation comes to the forefront, with writers who’ve been behind for days (or weeks) hook up an intravenous coffee drip and bust out the Visine and the plot twists.

I do not count myself in this camp. That kind of burst writing might work for some, but I can’t begin to fathom the process: going from not writing at all, or hardly at all, only to throw yourself at a ten thousand word day seems like some special kind of torture.

I am a turtle. On rollerskates. With a jetpack. That is to say, I like to go at a steady rate, one day after another, until I get to the end. My rate for this book has been fast, even for me, but regular. I work best with habits. Coffee (or tea if I’m feeling wild), cup of water, chapstick, Pandora, headphones, a seat at a table where I can see all my enemies the people in the coffee shop. This is my ideal. Not the only time I can write, but I think my most productive times.

I have a friend who has written a couple screenplays, but hasn’t sat down to write in quite some time. He says getting past that initial hurdle is the hardest part. Once he gets the ball rolling, sitting down to write becomes another part of the day–a habit–but until then nary a word is expressed via type. And I tell him, every time we talk about writing, that consistency is key.

You hear it pretty much wherever you go looking for writing advice: Write every day. Give yourself a time, a setting, and get some words down. It could be 100, or 1,000 or 10. The act of writing is self-propagating. When you write a few word, the next few tumble out. When you sit down at your desk for ten minutes, you find yourself writing for twelve. And then fifteen. And after a month, or a year, or whatever it needs to be, you have yourself a novel, or a short story, or a memoir, or a damn good exercise that will inform future writing.

I use NaNoWriMo as a tool, an extra incentive to get my ass securely in chair and work towards a goal, utilizing a month’s worth of community and outside pressure to achieve it. Note that extra. Because when it’s not November, the ass is still in the chair. The writing is still getting done. And I think that is so, so important, regardless of whether you’re a burst writer or a turtle. (Jetpacks optional.)

So try this, in December and beyond into that shiny new year: Give yourself time, and space, to create. Whether it’s writing, or painting, or underwater basket weaving, set aside a time either every day, or once a week, when you can devote say…ten minutes to your endeavor. And then keep doing that. Put it in your calendar. Send yourself an email alert. Tell everyone what your intentions are.(Peer pressure is powerful. Haven’t you seen the after-school specials?) Be unabashedly, rabidly jealous of that time, even if it’s only ten minutes. No, especially if. Those are your minutes. Make something beautiful happen.

Any tips and tricks for getting in the habit of creating?

And here’s a nice post from fellow CW alum about the power of writing with others.

Total word count: 78,112

Today’s words: zed (but yesterday was a healthy 3.5k)

Excerpt from yesterday:

“It runs in the family. Didn’t you know that crazy’s in the blood?” Gunshot girl shoved Garland away from Sydney. “You owe us a new flask.”

“And a bottle of vodka,” Alan said.

“What’s going on?” Noah stepped up, Bryan at his shoulder. Both looked just as ready to hit someone, as they were to make peace.

“Your whack job sister ruined my flask.” Alan threw the bent silver container at Bryan. It hit his chest and clattered to the floor. Drops of liquid darkened Bryan’s embroidered shirt. The crowd around them started to move back. Bryan looked down and nudged the flask with his toe. Then he plucked at his shirt and sniffed the damp spots. He raised his eyebrow at Alan.

“No outside food or drinks,” he said. “You should go, before I kick you out.”

“You can’t kick me out.” Alan’s voice was shrill. “Who do you think you are?”

“You should go.” The voice came from behind Sydney. Kenneth pushed her and Bryan gently out of the way and stood in front of Alan and his friends.

“What are you, her dad?” Alan sneered, but he stepped back.

“I’m giving you to the count of three, and then we’ll get the police involved.” Kenneth crossed his arms. “One…”

“You can’t threaten me.”

“Two…”

“Come on, Alan.” Gunshot girl pulled on Alan’s shirt. He shrugged her off.

“Three.”

 

Photo used under creative commons license from rebelwriterX.

 
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Posted by on November 28, 2011 in NaNoWriMo, writing

 

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Welcome to Week Two

What is it about great big goals and getting sick that make them so compatible? Is it the added stress one takes on? Or perhaps a little kick in the butt to remind one to be humble? Either way, I’m kind of tired of it.

Around the end of week one of my ClarionWest expedition I got super sick. (Too sick to be as nice and charming around Connie Willis and Neil Gaiman as I wanted to be. *pout*) I was tired out from not getting enough sleep, drained from being apart from my home and thrown into this new environment, and probably reaping all the combined stress that I’d been carrying around ever since…well, since I sent my application, actually.

Now, here we are at the end of week one of 2011 NaNoWriMo and I’m sick. Not as bad as that CW experience, but then the circumstances aren’t as extreme, either. (Plus, I don’t think I’m as sick as I’m going to get, so there is still time!) Despite the sore throat, persistent headache and weird hollow feeling in the back of my neck, though, I am still on track to hit my self-imposed NaNo goal. And with one hundred words to spare!

You hear a lot about week two in the NaNo community. There’s this kind of dreadful, dark cloud that hangs over everything. This is the point where the honeymoon generally comes to an end. Characters who were at one point exciting and new become boring and predictable. Settings that once shined with an exotic glamour become trite and dull. Plots that were as twisty as a sailor’s knot look more like flat rope. This, they say, is where it starts to get hard.

And, while I think there’s certainly some truth to that (oh, stupid, stupid mental institute scene), I think the opposite can happen, too. This is where you start really getting to know your characters. Quirks emerge that you couldn’t have planned on. They turn a phrase that is so perfect it seems kind of amazing that you wrote it. This is when you can see that your knotty plot really was a bit flat–and how to fix it. The moments that start happening in week two are kind of magical, but its magic that has come from planting all those lovely little plot and character and setting seeds, and then weeding and tending them so you can watch something green pop through your word dirt.

Then, in December, or January, or twenty years from now, you can come back, brush off the dirt, and keep all those lovely verdigris pieces that were so painful to find amidst the dull, the predictable, and the annoying.

What I’m trying to say here is that week two doesn’t have to be horrible. Once I started giving my story some rope to wander off on, it started pulling me along right behind it. Cut your characters some slack. Throw them into a hard situation. Now is the time to break out the pressure cooker and watch them sweat. Because as we all know, sweaty people are major-interesting!

No…wait…what I mean is: Story is Conflict. Make things hard, and I’m willing to bet they’ll be fun.

Also, if you’re starting to feel sick, take some vitamins and a day off. In the long run, it’ll be worth it.

Current Daily Word Count: 3,263

Current Total Word Count: 22,505

Excerpt from today’s writing:

“Need a hand?” He called out when she saw him. He had a wide, even stride, dark blonde hair, and looked to be about Mom’s age. Sydney was about to tell him to piss off when Mom got out of the car. She was smiling, and she’d wiped the trails of mascara off her cheeks.

“It won’t start,” Mom said as the guy got closer.

“Maybe I can help,” he said, returning her smile with a flash of his own pearly whites. Sydney had the feeling they were in the start of a bad horror movie. Broken down car, outside of a mental institute, some strange man offering to help. Next thing, he’d be drugging Mom and chasing Bryan down with a chainsaw. Sydney, of course, would be the brave heroine who escapes the madman in order to alert the police, only to be stalked by him—and the memories or her poor, slain family—through the rest of the movie.

Sydney gave the guy her best polite smile and moved out of the way so he could join Bryan under the hood.

 
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Posted by on November 8, 2011 in NaNoWriMo, writing

 

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Foolscap 2011

I learned last Friday that I am going to be doing something new and exciting, a first in my writerly career. I’m going to be on a panel at Foolscap! Three panels, actually.

Foolscap is a small science fiction convention held every year in Redmond. This year’s guest of honor will be Ted Chiang, a Clarion graduate.

In brief, my schedule is:

Friday 4-5 pm Elk Room: Why So Much Fantasy and So Little SF?

Saturday 9.30-11pm Alder Room: Young Adult Protagonists: Good Role Models? Should They Be?

Sunday 2-3.30pm Canyon Room: Writer Inspiration: What Inspires You to Write?

Now, with that business out of the way, I thought I’d write a bit about conventions, and what they mean to me.

I went to my first convention when I was in my teens. My wild and crazy teens, to be more specific. I had read some Heinlien, some Gaiman, some other things. I had written stories about vampires and murderers and the like. But I would not have identified myself as a fan or writer of speculative fiction. Maybe that’s just because I didn’t have the vocabulary at the time. Either way, I went to the convention not as a fan, but as a girlfriend of a fan. And I went for reasons that had little to do with programming or the art.

My first con was MileHiCon, in Denver, Colorado. It’s a pretty big con, between 900 and 1,100 people, according to the great and powerful Wikipedia. My memory has been altered by chemical substances and many years since then, and my recollection of the con is a jumbled one. I know, for a fact, that I attended exactly zero panels. In fact, it wasn’t until much later that I realized cons HAD panels, a lapse which gets thrown in with a lot of other regrets–>teenagedom–>missed opportunities.

I went to a couple more MileHiCons, all with the same result, over the following years.

Fast forward to 2009. I’m older, more responsible, living in Seattle and ready to take my self and my writing seriously. I embrace speculative fiction, and am just starting to get my grips on what the word ‘community’ means in relation to SF/F. I am also lacking, utterly, in friends who share this love or understanding.

And I am going to NorWesCon.

This is a Big Deal for me. I’m going by myself, into a massive (estimates around 3,000 attendees) science fiction convention. Being alone in this, in and of itself, is a marker. I am grown up enough to do things I want to do without needing someone else to escort me. The other Big Thing is that I’m going to a convention, not as a hanger-on, but as someone invested in what these people and their efforts represent. I love science fiction. I love fantasy. I love horror. And I want to get as much out of the panels and discussions and general merriment as I can. This is me starting to embrace…well, me.

Because of the way I was introduced to speculative fiction, I’d always felt it had a bit of dirtiness to it. The genres reminded me of things I didn’t want to dwell on or revisit. And what a fucking shame, too, because I spent a fair amount of time wrestling with whether I should or shouldn’t love these books, people, etc., and why.

I worried about whether I liked these genres independently, or if I liked them in a twisted, nostalgic way. I worried about whether this was quality fiction, or if I’d be better off reading literary fiction, and edifying myself. I worried about what I was writing, and, in the case of horror especially, if that was a positive thing for me to spend time and energy on.

(By the way- I’m over that.)

So going to NorWesCon was as much about identifying myself as a SpecFic writer and fan as it was about going to listen to these panels. It was a good experience, too, if a bit lonely. I went to a panel about ClarionWest, which solidified my resolve to apply. I went to a panel about horror, which clued me in to some interesting movies. I saw a fashion show. Wow. But through it all I didn’t really speak to anyone. I was an Eliza cocoon. There, but apart.

I go into Foolscap with a different perspective than I have with any of the other cons I’ve attended. I’m a CW grad. I’ll be published in 2012. I’m in love with SpecFic, and I feel like I’m at least on the fringes of the community. And people are, theoretically, going to spend their time to listen to what I (among others) have to say. And that’s pretty cool.

 
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Posted by on September 16, 2011 in discovery

 

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Marking the Occasion

My Favorite Morning Ritual

I am a big fan of ritual. I think it’s important to make a big deal out of certain moments in our lives, like getting married or (eek!) publishing a book. They’re rites of passage, and giving those moments some time in the spotlight does two things:

  • It says that what we’ve been doing is worth celebrating.
  • It gives us an opportunity to reflect, which I think in turn provides fuel for the next awesome challenge.

(Plus, who couldn’t use an extra excuse to down tasty cocktails?)

I also like the intentionality of ritual. Catholic Mass, for example, is about putting the attendants in the frame of mind to be with God. It’s a certain kind of focus that I find missing in a lot of day-to-day life, which is not a bad thing. Just…a thing.

Ritual, for me, wraps the real up into the mysterious, and makes it more than what we can see and touch and feel. It makes these events, at the risk of sounding woo-woo, more spiritual. I think this is an aspect of my character that confuses some people.

And I also think I’m okay with that.

I’ve noticed, though, that I don’t often play off my love of ritual in my writing, at least not in any transparent way. I could argue that all of my writing is ritualistic, but I’m thinking something more defined. More like my story “A Dancer For Aonou”, which features a pagan blood ritual as a central motif. Considering that the story was my WotF honorable mention, as well as my first sale, it might behoove me to explore the ritual aspect a bit more in future writings.

Actually, I think it would be cool to see more fiction about ritual in general. What one society chooses to ritualize–and how they illustrate that–can be so illuminating! In our society we laud the birth of a child, the purchase of a new home…what about a society that marks a woman’s first kiss with ritualized scarification? Or a society that ushers children into adulthood by giving them wings?

What we as individuals, and as societies, choose to venerate says a lot about us. Think of your story, or your novel. What do the people in your world celebrate? What are their rituals?

 

picture used under creative commons license from CoffeeGeek

 
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Posted by on August 25, 2011 in discovery, writing

 

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The Muse and Maple Syrup

Imagine you are a big, beautiful maple tree. You have lovely green leaves for shade in the spring and summer, foliage that would make a hooker blush in the fall and delightful creeping branches bereft of life in the winter. You stand in a grove amongst your fellow maple tree, in some chilly climate in the north.

And every year someone cuts you open to drain you of sap, so they can have something yummy on their pancakes.

Only, the person cutting you open is yourself.

And the sap is your creative juices. And think of that syrup as novels, short stories, poetry, or even blog posts.

What are the pancakes in this scenario? Um…moving on!

Back to the maples. Each tree only has so much sap in it at a given time. Eventually, the tree runs low, and then dry. And if you tap and tap and tap, without letting the tree restore itself naturally, what you get is only a small trickle compared to what you might get otherwise.

(Please excuse me if I’m utterly butchering the science of maple trees. It’s on my creative license that I get to warp nature to my needs.)

For some people, this fallow period represents writer’s block, and—if allowed to fester—can become something damaging. For others, though, this can be seen as a chance to rest, and rejuvenate.

When the sap has run dry, and you feel like your creative juices are coming in at a trickle, what do you do?

Better question, since this is my blog: What do I do? I have a few methods for approaching these periods, and all of them work differently at different times. Such is the human temperament.

One of my favorite activities to stir up my juices is to take long walks, preferably through a forested area, preferably alone. And when I say alone, I mean no music, no podcasts, no dogs or cell phones. Since I don’t exercise much, I wind up feeling semi-healthy for a while, and it gets blood moving through my body and into my brain in ways I don’t normally get to enjoy.

I suppose you could just exercise, but…dear god, why!?

Watching TV. Oh, the bane of pretentious scholars everywhere. And, truth be told, I hate most television. More importantly, I hate broadcast television. Commercials are mind-numbing. Soul-sucking. Creativity-killing. But a good story, told in an efficient manner? That I can get behind. Not to mention the plethora of engaging documentaries out there. All the stuff National Geographic and the History Channel puts out are creative gold mines. I often watch these with a pen and paper nearby, so I can jot down any ideas I have.

(I’ve found documentaries useful in both fallow and fertile times.)

I think the most important thing to do, though, is rest. Catch up on reading. Spend time with friends, out in the world. And be nice to yourself. The fallow periods are not forever. The words will come back. The ideas will come back, if you let them. Don’t neglect your writing, but don’t force it, either. Take a couple of days away from the keyboard or the notebook, and then try again.

If you look back over a lot of my posts, you may notice that I’m a word counter, and a huge proponent of writing every day. But between projects, I think a little downtime is essential, and restorative. Feed your muse, or whatever the hell you want to call that part of yourself. And don’t freak out if it takes a little while for the sap to fill back up.

Image used under Creative Commons License from: jbelluch

 
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Posted by on August 9, 2011 in creating, writing

 

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Margo Lanagan, Pie & Exhaustion

Welcome to week three. This is the time when exhaustion starts to creep into the edges of things. When reading one more story feels like a nigh insurmountable hurdle. When writing another story feels like torture. (Hey–when does it not, right?)

I’ve noticed a couple of things this week. Class starts at nine AM, Monday through Friday. In the first week we were all rushing to get there at 8:59.59. Then last week we were sliding into our seats with a few seconds to spare. This morning, most of us were in the classroom five, even ten minutes before the stroke of learning. (That’s what she said.)

Another thing is that I find myself seeking solitude more often, and with greater fervency. I expect this theme to continue, to some degree or another. Today, for example, I spent most of the afternoon alone, in the basement. And, since I had such a pleasant few hours down there, I will tell you what I did.

  • Critiqued a story.
  • Stood up and stretched.
  • Critiqued another story.
  • Made myself a cup of tea and grabbed a piece of awesome yummy banana bread.
  • Watched videos of So You Think You Can Dance (Do not resist the clickage!)
  • ‘Finished’ my story for Friday

Good times were had by all. But the intense socialization that ClarionWest can cultivate does get wearing. Even sitting amongst half a dozen quiet writers in the common room, each focused on their own task, takes something out of you. And since the common room was practically deserted when I emerged for dinner, I must assume I’m not the only person here dealing with this particular stressor.

In other news: Pie!

And, furthermore: Margo Lanagan!

We got an interesting mini-lecture from Margo this morning concerning titles. Apparently, we somewhat suck at titles. Speaking for myself, I already knew that. I mean, Phibs, Lies & Whiskey’ was probably my best. Title. Evar. And that was produced a while ago. Like…years, or summat.

She said that a title should sum up the essence of a story, without giving away the plot, a feat at which Debbie Does Dallas fails miserably. Some pointers she gave for choosing a title:

  • Refer to reference materials used. Her story ‘Eyelids of the Dawn’ refers to the description of the Leviathan in the ultimate reference book–the Bible.
  • Refer to the story itself. ‘A Fine Magic’ came directly from the character in said story, when describing his work.
  • Use the setting to inform the title. ’Under Hell Over Heaven’ is a story Margo wrote about, you guessed it, Heaven and Hell.
  • Use the action to inform the title. In ‘Singing My Sister Down’ the main character does exactly that. But the actions are so divorced from the world we know, and so intriguing, that even thought this sums up the story, it doesn’t give anything away.

Of course, some stories come with a title attached to them, already. Struck By Chocolate, my attempt at a romance novel, came to me title first, and then the plot rushed in to fill out the space. And I’ve picked up a couple of titles here to stories I will likely never write, but I like the sound of it. Like ‘A Bucket Full of Medical Care’. Sounds awesome, if I could figure out what the hell it means.

 
 

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On Delayed Gratification…

Does getting most of my reading material from the library make me a bad reader? Am I not supporting the authors I love if I pick up a used copy of their book? It’s an accusation that has been lobbed at readers lately, and if you’re interested in hearing more about what I believe is a partially valid but also partially insulting argument, you can go here. That is not what this post is about, but it’s tenuously related, and made me think of that post.

So there you go.

I’ve always been a fan of delayed gratification. I think one of the brilliant things about life is the sense of anticipation we can build for ourselves, which makes the resulting payoff that much sweeter. It’s a comparison thing, I think. We have times of famine and times of plenty, and without the famine, the plenty wouldn’t be as nice. Like a man constantly surrounded by riches- what does he have to compare it to?

You know, this is getting a little deeper than I had anticipated. Initially I was just going to talk about the book I have on hold at the library, and some other things, but I realize what I’m really talking about is more fundamental- appreciation.

I have long believed that in order to fully appreciate the beauty in life we have to experience, or at least be aware of, the pain. What is sanity without madness? What is sweetness without a bitter tang?

Not much, I say. When our hearts and our tongues get all the good stuff, without any of the bad, we become inoculated, in a sense, to joy. And what a shame. Luckily, life generally doesn’t work like that. We are constantly thrown challenges, just by virtue of being alive. Often, the things we are forced to face are unlike anything we’ve ever seen before. We may reach out for guidance, or reach inside for comfort, but either way, we have to deal. Or not. The basic choice between life and death.

Hmm…I’ve gone from delayed gratification to life and death. I do believe I’m off the point here.

What started me on this train of thought: I have a book I am very excited to read, on hold at the library. It has been available for me to pick up for almost a week, and yet, I have delayed. I have let the reality of that book being within my grasp, and yet out of it, boil away for days. It is true that I have many other books on my to-be read bookshelf (and I added yet another one today after a quick trip to a different library), but that is only a small part of my reason for leaving the book in the library hold shelf.

I want to anticipate it.

This feeling of anticipation is something we should strive for in our stories, as well. That sweet, aching moment, when we are left temporarily unsure about the direction the character is going to choose. Will she run away? Will she kill the bad guy? Will she join forces with him and become the penultimate evil sorceress, intent on destroying Fairyland?

Eh…or something like that.

Breeding the right amount of anticipation requires walking a fine and shaky line. One I will readily admit I have not mastered yet. In fact, it was only recently that I became consciously aware of the NEED for anticipation, as such. (Thanks again Jim Butcher, whose books I ought to read soon.) But it makes perfect sense. A little bit of stomach grip, for the readers, can go such a long way.

Now, for everyone who might get up in arms about me putting off picking up this book, because others will be wanting to read it I say this- I have waited over a month for this book to become available, and when it is finally in my sweaty grasp, I will devour it as quickly as I might a handful salted caramels. After that, it shall go right back to the library, to grace some other reader’s embrace. So, quick turnaround.

Now, unfortunately, my want for waiting may have bitten me right in the ass this time around. I had forgotten that the above mentioned library is closed on Fridays, and too far away for me to drive to on any day I am not working. My hold expires on Monday. Boo…my only hope is that the library staff will be slow to pull expired holds Monday, and I might sneak in right when they open (conveniently on my lunch break) and spirit away with my new reading material.

Wish me luck.

 
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Posted by on March 13, 2010 in reading, Uncategorized

 

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