Tag Archives: creativity

Time to Trust

All summer, I’ve been busy working on a book on plotting. As I’ve pondered, analyzed, and explained technique for this manuscript, I realized how easy it can be to over-think fiction. Sometimes, you simply have to back up . . . and let go.

Usually novice writers start out by falling in love with fiction. We absorb books like plants do water and sunshine. Then there comes a day when we decide we’ll write our own stories. Our imagination is teeming. We’re excited. We throw ourselves into our fledgling effort and either zoom to the end–yippee!–or we hit a stumbling block and stall out.

Wannabe writers who zoom along with no awareness of problems often become what I call scribblers. They write effortlessly and heedlessly, oblivious to their mistakes, and happily create drivel in the certainty they’re producing terrific stuff. With such hobbyists, I wish them well but hope they never seek publication.

Other beginners, however, realize quickly that there’s an entire universe of things they don’t know. They falter and stop, overwhelmed by the enormity of what they need to learn.

Of this second group, some pull themselves together and seek training or continue to hunt and peck their way through exploration and discovery. The rest declare writing to be too hard and drop out.

Those who keep trying by joining writers groups, taking writing classes, networking, seeking mentors, and devouring books on writing while generating story after story will improve. Their hard work will pay off, eventually.

But sometimes the determination to learn so much and to overcome difficulties can lead to over-thinking. The placement of every comma; the heroine’s dialogue rewritten and read aloud and rewritten, rewritten, polished, tightened, rewritten and rewritten; the worry over how a subplot is going; the concern that several scenes aren’t quite right, etc. can all lead to a hyper-critical state that becomes counterproductive.

You can become so conscious, so aware, of the process that you make the mistake of trying to control it. And that’s not what pros do. Instead, they trust.

Learning and mastering technique is important because it helps you navigate the challenges of awkward plots and difficult characters. Knowing what you’re doing gives you confidence. Best of all, as Ray Bradbury pointed out, once you’ve mastered technique you don’t have to consciously think about it anymore and you can then concentrate on your story.

Therefore, relax. Accept that the process will always get you there. Learn to trust it and let go, the way when swimming you trust the buoyancy of water so you can float. Allow your story to unfold without agonizing over every word. Write the rough draft from a spirit of fun. Believe in your idea. Follow through with it and stick with what you’ve planned, but allow for little quirks and the extras that are going to occur to you when you’re in the flow.

The actual creation of rough draft should not be censored, criticized, second-guessed, or analyzed as you go. That’s too restrictive, and it will hinder you so much that you may develop writer’s block. You should never attempt to edit yourself while you’re creating. As I’ve said many times, the editing function and the creative function operate in separate brain hemispheres, and the human brain is not designed to utilize both hemispheres simultaneously. Work on one function at a time.

When an idea comes to you, embrace it and indulge it at first. Then analyze and test it. Send it back to the idea-maker and create anew. Then analyze and examine it as much as you need to until you have a solid outline. That’s what you trust–all the upfront work to check plausibility, check feasibility, check plot holes, fix plot holes, think and tweak, etc., until you have a solid plan. Then close your doubts and uncertainty, and just write.

Write with all your heart–not your mind. Write fast. Write passionately. Write until you barely know who you are when you leave the keyboard. Live with your characters. Be your characters. And wear their skin through every scene as it unfolds. Don’t look at them from some remote and safe vantage point. Stand in the dusty crossroads as war refugees trudge along. Smell the dust and fear. Listen to the rumble of trucks and the distant pounding of artillery too far away to see. Feel the beating of your heart. Clutch that silly candlestick that belonged to Aunt Ziva, the one that’s stood on the mantel as long as you can remember. It’s now a symbol of home, all you have left. Hang onto it. Don’t drop it because if you do, you’ll somehow lose connection with the past, with family, with memories of when life was happy, and with any hope that life one day will be good again.

When you’ve finished the rough draft, you can once more put on your editor’s hat. You can think, criticize, revise, and pick at it until it’s tight, clear, and riveting. Just remember that when you revise, be honest. Did you come close to what you planned initially? Or did you fall seriously short?

If you made technical mistakes or lost your way through part of the manuscript, trust the process you’ve learned and fix the errors. Then step back, say “good enough,” and let the story live. Don’t kill it by polishing the zest and breath from it.

Plan. Trust. Write. Fix. Believe. Submit.

It’s never easy. But it really is that simple.

 

 

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Superstitions and Rituals

Do writers need these? Do they work? Are they important? Why do they matter? What’s the difference between them? How can they do harm?

Superstition is when one believes–without proof or a clear connection–that a certain object or behavior will bring either good or bad luck. For example, a tennis player who always wears a particular shirt when competing in important matches.

I used to avoid writing a dedication to any manuscript I was selling on spec. Once I sold the book to a publisher, then I would add the dedication or acknowledgment page during production. I developed this superstition early in my career because one or two manuscripts with dedications never found a publisher. It was silly, of course, and this superstition went away once I began to land book contracts on the basis of proposals instead of submitting complete manuscripts. In other words, I outgrew that superstition.

As long as a superstition is harmless, it can remain private or become an anecdote at parties. But if a writer allows superstition to interfere with writing production, marketing, or professionalism, it becomes another matter, one that requires investigation and possibly eradication.

Let’s say a writer develops an aversion to writing on cloudy days–and happens to live in an area of heavy rainfall. I’d say something psychological is going on. Is the writer in question just procrastinating?

One of the most charming superstitions I’ve encountered is a man who liked to write his book outline on index cards, and his wife would give him a new fountain pen at the start of each project, saying “Your next bestseller is inside this pen.”

Ritual is habitual behavior organized around a specific purpose. We’re told that–besides a supportive and comfortable mattress–achieving a good night’s sleep involves a regular bedtime, shutting down TV and all electronic devices at least 30 minutes before bedtime, dimming the lights, bathing, reading, etc.

In much the same way, rituals help writers to focus their thoughts as they prepare for their day’s writing session. Whether it’s brewing a cup of coffee, lighting a scented candle, going for a walk, putting on favorite music,  or rereading yesterday’s work, a simple activity repeated each day becomes a habit and trains us to set aside distractions and commence.

For example, Balzac is said to have oriented his desk in a certain direction. Other authors–in the days before computers and word processing–used rituals such as cleaning their typewriters, sharpening pencils, filling fountain pens with ink, and changing their blotter paper. Such mundane tasks required little attention, allowing the imagination to wander back to whatever scene was in progress.

Today, some of my  rituals include waiting for my ancient, wheezing computer to grind, thump, and growl itself to readiness–along with what seems to be an unnecessary amount of beeping and clacking from the printer–switching off my cell phone so some random text message doesn’t blow apart the perfect line of dialogue I’m about to write for my protagonist, switching on the lamps in my home office for optimal task and ambient lighting, and making sure my dogs have had their chance to visit the backyard.

What I don’t want to do is check my emails or text messages. That activity doesn’t work for me when I’m preparing to write. It provides a distraction, not a focus. It shifts my mind from creativity to responsivity. I can look at messages after I’ve written, when I need a break and want to think about something other than my characters or setting. Other writers, however, may need to check their messages first simply to get them out of the way. But for me, just as I don’t want to scroll through Facebook or work email  before I go to bed, neither do I want to deliberately distract my thoughts before I write.

You no doubt know already what works best for you versus what gives you an excuse to dodge that knotty plot problem you can’t seem to solve.

Productive rituals, good habits, self-honesty, and harmless superstitions equal a happy, working writer.

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Passing Along Inspiration

Hello,

Instead of yet another post in my meandering series on what shatters a reader’s suspension of disbelief, today I am sharing a link to a “Brain Pickings” newsletter article. it was passed along to me by a former writing student, Steven Thorn, and it conveys its nine points far more eloquently than I could.

May you be inspired today, if only through acknowledging your worth and creativity. Remember always that you have value, and believe in what you can do.

Cheers,

Deb

https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/10/23/nine-years-of-brain-pickings/

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Roaming Writer

As a writer, I’m always seeking a new, fresh experience — which can be as simple as leaving my house, my home office, and getting away from my computer. Routines, while effective, can tend to become ruts. It’s important to borrow a bit from Taylor Swift and “shake it off.” In this context, however, shake off the staid and mundane things once in a while. You don’t have to invest in a trip to Paris — although what an inspiration! Just get out and see with a different perspective — even if it’s only taking an alternate route home.

I spent Memorial Day 2015 returning from the land of cotton to the open prairies. I was driving a vintage pickup and pulling a trailer along miles and miles of lowest-bid built interstate highways, listening to whatever tolerable music I could tune up on the FM, non-satellite radio. Give me pop; give me bluegrass; give me R&B; give me funk, or give me Mozart, but I can’t abide most rap, and that seemed to be my choice other than modern country music or classic country. I chose the classic, because it was featuring a lot of boot-scooting and/or patriotic songs, and it reminded me of my childhood when I learned to listen to George Jones whether I wanted to or not.

My favorite tune of the day was Elvis belting out “Dixie.” It’s wonderful, but it also seemed right while I was driving along the top of a levee road and gazing across flooded fields, out-of-bounds rivers, and swampy woods that only ticks and chiggers could love.

Now I haven’t pulled a trailer since my teenage days of showing horses on the itty-bitty local saddle club circuit, so I was definitely rusty and taking extreme care with a twelve-foot U-Haul filling my rear-view mirror. I wasn’t sure how Ole Red would handle a big trailer either. Back in the day, this Ford could pull anything, but the pickup is four years shy of becoming an official automotive antique and hasn’t towed since its operation (emergency installation of a new engine). It did fine, especially once I crossed the state line and could buy real gasoline instead of ethanol. Since I was trying to scoot into central Oklahoma before the late-afternoon boil of severe thunderstorms, heavy rainfall, and/or tornado activity — the delays caused by wimpy fuel due to poor acceleration, struggling wallows over hills, and more frequent stops to refill — proved exasperating. Still, with real gas finally in the tank, Ole Red was able to zip out of range of a tornado roaming the east side of the state, and then there was only a severe thunderstorm to hunker through on the roadside shoulder before cruising on home.

In between these modest highlights of my day-long road trip, I had plenty of time to think about plot and characters.

Bing! I have a new protagonist for a new spin-off science fiction series.

Bing! I figured out how to simplify and shorten the storyline for my current fantasy project, in case I don’t want to write yet another trilogy.

Bing! In my head, I wrote a new scene to be inserted into my WIP.

So although it’s easy to pull my introverted-writer card and shy away from anything that might draw me from the comfort zone of my computer and imagination, I took on a physical challenge and vanquished it. I managed to thread my trailer through the hazards of fast-food parking. I met a delightful couple by sharing a table at a super-busy Braum’s where there weren’t enough tables for the crowd of holiday travelers. I even chatted with these folks and learned that there are no summer mosquitoes in Mount Nebo, Arkansas, which was where they were planning to spend a few days in a lake cabin. Who knew there were any mosquito-free zones in Dixie?

Now how could a day be more productive than that? I just wish I’d thought to attach a US flag on the truck to honor America’s fallen warriors.

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Creativity Beyond Words

This past weekend, I took a break away from my newest fiction project and attended a vintage market show. I didn’t go to buy. I went to walk around and see what imaginative and creative people who aren’t writers are doing.

Now, I go to antiques shows a few times a year, but this was different. I expected to see painted furniture, but aside from that I found vintage doll heads stuck atop lamp bases with tiny crowns made of marbles. I found wreaths made of cotton bolls. I found handmade primitive dolls. I found rusty tractor parts, chairs with ripped seats, salvaged hardware bits and bobs, and light fixtures made from old galvanized roof turbines.

(Did I take any pictures? Alas, no. The crowds were thick, and frankly I was too busy ogling and goggling to remember to snap pictures.)

I wanted to observe what people bought and what they might use their purchases for. After all, I keep hearing about the trend of repurposing from blogs and television. So what exactly, I wondered, were people doing and with what?

I saw customers gravitating toward antique typewriters and wooden shipping crates. I saw them caressing rusty lamps, murmuring over whether they could find someone to do rewiring. I saw them pondering the selection of chalk-type paints in one booth. I saw them deliberating over whether to buy signage.

But mainly I saw folks fingering random pieces of hardware, playing pieces salvaged from games, odd forks in tarnished silver, clock faces, old apothecary bottles, and rusty industrial springs. They were curious and obviously fascinated, but booth after booth seemed to offer more items to make things with than pieces reflecting actual imaginative re-use.

Mainly, it seemed to be less a venue of artistry and craftsmanship, and more a supply source.

As I was picking out some outdoor faucet handles — things that used to be in every garage sale and have now practically vanished — the vendor was asking me what I would use them for. Surely, I thought, you should be showing new uses to me.

But perhaps my expectations were off-base. All I know is that the place quivered with possibility. On every shelf, and at every turn, I saw the capacity for inventiveness just waiting to be seized. Table legs and wooden spindles … what can be made from them? What might be done with them?

The feet salvaged from an old clawfoot bath tub … could they be turned upside down to become bookends?

Looking at things from different angles and new perspectives, what a terrific exercise in imagination! Can an empty clock cabinet become a display case? Can a bed be re-carpentered into a bench? Can a battered piece of industrial iron become a work of art?

It’s so refreshing to move away from the abstraction of words from time to time and consider other means of self-expression. Besides, you never know what might spark a new story idea.

For example, I collect old nineteenth-century photos, also known as cabinet cards. I particularly like wedding photos.

These are what I purchased:

couple 1

couple 2

couple 3

On one level, the clothes fascinate me. Who is the most stylish couple? Only one bride is wearing the type of wedding dress and veil our modern perceptions might expect to see. couple 1The other young women are attired in finery, but not what we would consider bridal gowns. Look at the grooms with their well-cut suits and fine cravats.

On another level, I like to study their faces. Body language is difficult to decipher because of the stiff poses required by photographic methods of the day. But one couple is holding hands.couple 2

One couple has linked arms.couple 3

And one couple is standing stiffly side by side with only their elbows touching.couple 1

Fashionable poses? Or can we surmise stories about them and their relationships?

My other treasure (besides faucet handles) is this green glass doorknob.green door knob Is it authentically vintage or a reproduction? I’ve seen clear glass knobs and those sun-turned a delicate lavender tint, but I have never encountered an emerald green one before. Real or phony, it’s beautiful. I have no idea of what I’ll do with it, but I love it anyway.

green door knob

Who knows? Perhaps one day it will inspire a story about the fabled emeralds of some magical kingdom.

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Read 100

There is light at the end of my tunnel. I can look ahead past the stacks of student manuscripts and deadlines to a summer where my time is my own.

My imagination is presently staggering, malnourished and underfed. It craves vitamins and nutrients. It craves fun, creativity, good story, fast pacing, involving characters — all the elements it hasn’t been receiving in sufficient quantities lately.

Therefore, I plan to feed it by reading at least 100 books this summer. I hope the number will far exceed that, but we’ll see how it goes.

I’ve never been a bean counter. Any past attempts to document my reading through listing the titles and plot summaries in some kind of diary have usually fallen by the wayside. I know I read a lot, but I never know how much. As long as I’m getting through at least one or two novels a week, I’m happy.

However, I want to be better organized than this, so I propose to go through my house and gather up 100 novels that I haven’t read as yet. All those to-be stacks of books spilling off the tops of overloaded bookshelves and stacked beneath chairs … time to pull them out, dust them off, and crack them open.

I think I’ll corral them in a large plastic tub and park it in the living room. If I start a book and dislike it enough to toss it aside after the first few pages, then it won’t count toward my quota. If I should empty the tub before the end of summer, then I’ll refill it with another 100 books and keep going.

Too ambitious?

I have no idea. I keep thinking back to my childhood, when I spent most summer days reading one to two books daily. I don’t intend to shoot for THAT, but the well needs filling and I aim to do it the best way I know how.

Meanwhile, there are new books to be chased down and captured as well. John Sandford’s new Prey title was released today. And the latest Miss Julia offering from Ann B. Ross came out earlier this month. My fingers are itching to order heaps of tomes. I visited bookstores three times this past weekend, racing up and down aisles with a sense of joy and abandon, surrounded by books on all sides.

During the past few months, I have been restricted on book purchases. Nothing like paying off the bills for eye surgery to dent one’s bank balance. But although this weekend I meant to buy only one book because payday cometh soon, I couldn’t quite achieve such self-discipline. Let’s just say I managed to get out of the store with only two sacks full of reading material, my credit card groaning all the way. How I wanted more!

What are your reading plans for the summer? Right now, I’m heading for the bookstore with maybe a detour past the library.

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In Search of a Giant

Some days, you think your morning is going to be yet another ordinary experience, and then–from the blue, bam!–a sentence rocks your world.

Today before breakfast I was reading the October issue of English Home Magazine because
1) They still have content, unlike all too many American magazines;
2) They still serve up huge, luscious photography instead of tiny, thumb-print sized pics increasingly prevalent in American magazines;
3) They still seem to believe their readers possess intelligence and education;
4) They are MAGAZINES, not imitators of blogs;
5) They usually ignite my imagination in some unexpected, serendipitous way.

While reading the Mrs. Minerva column–one of my favorite features within English Home, incidentally–I came across a nugget of sheer creative gold. It was a sentence casually suggesting that parents take their children to see St. Michael’s Mount. There, the author mentioned, you pause on the heart-shaped stone in the causeway to listen to the giant’s heart beating beneath the sea.

Whoosh! My imagination caught fire. I gobbled my breakfast, raced to work on my usual commute, fired off my usual pre-lecture emails faster than usual, and as soon as my first class ended, I switched on Google to run a search.

St. Michael’s Mount is located in Cornwall. The National Trust’s Website calls it “the jewel in Cornwall’s crown.” The Mount is a hill rising out of the sea just off the shoreline. The castle atop it dates back to the 14th century, although the site was an important port as long ago as the Iron Age and a chapel was built on the Mount in the 11th century. Also in the 11th century, a tsunami flooded the Cornish shore with the sea engulfing woodlands and creating the present-day configuration of the island.

History is always fascinating to me, and although normally that alone would set my heart beating a little quicker, today it was the giant I wanted, the legend. Not tsunamis or granite outcroppings.

Turns out, this is where the legend of Jack the Giant Killer started. A giant named Cormoran lived on the Mount. Every day or so, when the tide ran out, Cormoran would wade ashore from the island and steal cows and sheep from the local fields. One night, while Cormoran slept, a boy named Jack rowed out to the island and dug a deep pit on one side of the Mount. At dawn, he blew his horn and woke up Cormoran. As the giant ran down the hillside, the rising sun dazzled him. He failed to see Jack or the pit and fell in or was bludgeoned in, never to trouble the village again. In gratitude, the village gave Jack a sword and belt, the latter embroidered with
“This is the valiant Cornishman
Who slew the Giant Cormoran”

When people ask me how I develop ideas into plots, this kind of thing is often how I start. A snippet, a fragment, a phrase comes my way and ignites my imagination.

Now, having spent my spare moments today reading the ancient nursery rhyme about Jack the Giant Killer and gleaning through several variations of the legend I summarized above, I have no intention of recreating the legend in some fantasy novel. Nor do I want to write it as a deconstructed fairy tale. Charles de Lint has already done a wonderful job of that with his Canadian story of a girl called Jack and boggarts who ride Harley-Davidson motorcycles.

I’m less interested in the actual legend now that I’ve read it, and more intrigued by that image of a child pausing partway to the castle and listening to the shifting restless waves for a giant’s heartbeat.

The online site Ancestry.com says there’s a stone shaped like a heart lying on the path above the well. Generations of children have been told to put their hand on their heart so they can feel the giant’s heart beating. Uh, duh, I guess they will.

Somehow, I like the image of the child pausing on the causeway better.

Where will I go with that? I don’t know as yet.

Do I have a plot? Not yet. None of this is even a premise.

What grabs me is the innocence and wonder within a young child–one not yet spoiled by electronic toys and the endless pulses, beats, and yammer of our modern age. Modern parents cram young children’s lives with gadgets that fill in colors on a screen as the little one simply pushes buttons. No matter what the experts and toy designers may say, I think that such widgets and whizzbang boopity-boop on batteries succeed only in suppressing imagination.

But here is a little girl or a little boy, not yet caught by the ennui of modern childhood. A child clutching an adult hand, stopping obediently to listen. Can’t you see her face, eyes slightly unfocused in concentration before they suddenly flare in wonder? The child has heard it, whether that “it” is an actual sound or one born of sheer imagination. It doesn’t matter because in that instant, the child believes. And that, my fellow writers, is the enchantment.

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