Writing Style

I'm learning things about how I write. More specifically, how I write successfully.*

I'm convinced that Writers with Character come up with a brilliant title, dazzling characters, a wicked hook, and a stunning plot. They outline. They plan. They write fifteen hundred to two thousand words every day and make a book.

I get the rest of it, the revising, the critiquing, the editing, the re-revising, the totally re-writing. I know that part. But the planning, the plotting, the outlining, is like some gorgeous pear at the top of the tree -- no matter how much I reach for it, I can't touch it, and then I'm sore and cranky.

But, being the kind of girl I am (a little slow), I keep trying for it. I reach for that outline. I write so many words every day. I struggle. I hate my words. I sigh at my futile reaching. But what do you know: there's another pear, equally gorgeous, waiting for me right at eye level. I just need to change my focus and grab it.

I may not be a Woman of Character (surprise!) and I'm going to have to be okay with that. I may never have a successful writing experience coming from an outline. I may never even write a plot-heavy book. But there are other pears on the tree, see?

Let's switch metaphors here:

My writing style is different from what I think it should be. I'm not that Writer of Character I imagine. I'm more like a toddler playing with pretty beads, picking one up and looking at all sides of it, holding it up to the light, tasting it, maybe shoving it up my nose (or maybe not), and deciding I love it. So I put that bead in the Keepers pile. Then I pick up another bead, one that makes me smile, or maybe even one that reminds me of something sad that I don't really want to forget. So I'll stare at that bead for a while, polishing it on my shirt, and put it into the Keepers pile, too. Before too long, I have a great big pile of shiny beads, some big glass ones, some cheesy plastic ones, some groovy silver ones. I love my pile.

But what good is a pile of beads?

So I have to string them. And then probably dump them back onto the table. And restring them and dump them a few more times. Then I'll see that I need a few more beads. And some spacers. And I'll take a little break here and there. And do you know what happens then? I can put an end clasp on it, and it will be complete. A whole necklace.

Will it make me a fortune? No. Will everyone want a necklace just like that? Certainly not. Will I be able to love it anyway? I will. Because I chose each bead. I polished each one and took time to love every inch of the string.

And so it is when I write successfully. I allow myself to write the scene I'm feeling. To dive in to the middle of a relationship and then let the details, the process, the lead-in follow. To discover each shiny, light-filled bead and to put it in a pile. To go back and write another scene, choose another bead, until I fill my pile with scenes I love: some big ones, some shiny ones, some cheesy ones, some gorgeous, light-filled ones.

And when it's time to string them together, I remind myself that this isn't the end -- I'm not finished if I don't want to be. There can be more stringing and un-stringing and re-stringing until I'm pleased with the whole effect.

But what if my favorite bead doesn't fit? Do I have to throw it away? Course not. I can put it on the desk and look at it every day. Maybe it will inspire a whole new necklace.

And isn't that the whole idea? The Inspiration part? So here's my point. (You knew I had one, didn't you?) Ask everyone about their style. Pry. Discover all the pears on the tree. Try reaching for some. Find the one that's in your reach.

Then go forward. Plot, if you're a plotter. Eavesdrop, if you're a dialoger. Analyze, if your a character-er. Pick up those pretty beads if you're a beader. Outline, for heaven's sake, if you're an outliner. And good for you. Do it. Write it. Paint it. Create it. Sing it. Whatever you're doing, do it. Add to the pile.

When the pile grows, that can only be a good thing.

*With adverbs, apparently.

More Writing?

Do you know what this is? This? Right here? It's Post # 300. I know. Stunning, right? To think that only two hundred and seventy-five of them have been meaningless drivel! It makes a girl so proud!

So I'm hanging in the lobby (because someone's cleaning my room, perhaps, and also because here is the internet) and I'm watching the pretty waves roll in to the little cove, and I'm sure, certain, positive that I should be writing something other than this blog post, momentous as it may be.

But here's the thing for me about writing.

I need to feel it.

I brought one of those little memory sticks with me. It's purple. It allows me to carry all my drafts over the ocean to Hawaii. It allows me to add to the drafts. Of whatever I brought. Lots of options. And I'm honestly not feeling it at all.

The writing, although good exercise, frankly stinks. It's dry and unfunny and pedestrian and prosaic. (that's different from Prozac - at least that would seem funny, right?)

Side note: There is a man standing at the window looking very much like a late-middle-aged Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. He has on Khaki shorts and a grayish wide-sleeved tank, almost a t-shirt, but not quite. He's wearing square, wire-rimmed glasses and standing with his fists balled on his hips, fingers pointing back up toward his skinny arms. His hair is thin, and his stomach isn't. If I hadn't seen that movie (seventy times) would I have thought that guy was funny? Would I have thought him mentionable? Duh. Of course not. Because it's only the reflection of comedy that makes him comical. Okay, and the outfit. And the fists on hips. But it's the whole picture that makes him -- wait. He just turned his head, and he has the mustache. A skinny one. I'm trying not to giggle, because someone passing by might currently be thinking what a hard-working grownup I am right now. I'd hate to disabuse anyone of that notion.

So the point? I forget. Let's keep talking about that Kip guy. Having something relatable makes stories better.

Never fear: this is not a tirade.

Once I did a school visit where I talked to the kids about Truth and Fiction. Someday I'll write it all up without the "Yeah" and the "Um" and the "Seriously, kid? Is that what you think?" parts. But my point (about that) is that Fiction isn't the opposite of truth. Fiction is the rearrangement of truth. What we love about fiction is the truth that speaks to us underneath the story. We talked, the school kids and I, about Harry Potter. About the true parts (Everyone wants to go home to a safe place. It's valiant to fight against Evil. We want to be connected, especially when we feel different than everyone around us. It's hard to be in the middle of a fight between best friends. Sometimes it's hard to tell who's a bad guy. Good intentions aren't enough. Like that.) and about the clearly made-up parts. We talked about Twilight, about the true parts (teenage girls are attracted to dangerous guys) and the not true parts (it's totally okay for a girl to have her ice-cold undead boyfriend sleep with her in her bed, because nothing's going to happen).

And that's where I like to go when I'm writing. I like to know something true (a family can be built, it's not something that's just going to happen) or something that I hope is true (I am okay, even if I'm not feeling it right now) or even something that I want to be true (love wins) and work it in with things that are not necessarily real. Words become relatable. It creates a reaction - sometimes an explosion (usually just laughter, though) and suddenly it's more than it was. Heads nod. Maybe there are giggles. Maybe frustration. Maybe tears.

It's Fiction. It's Truth. It's Story. It's Real. It's Fun.

Okay, enough. Time to write.

Writing Again

Sort of. Mostly for the past month, I haven't written much longer than a blog post. Ack. It hasn't really been in me. I know, I know... a woman of character writes whether or not she's feeling it. Need we mention, once again, that I am not a woman of character?

But school starts tomorrow, so I got up earlier than usual, made a delicious German Pancake breakfast, and got out a previously-abandoned draft of a novel to peck at. I read it over while breakfast baked, and when it was time to wake the Kids (for the trial run of getting out of bed before nine) I didn't want to leave it.

Wow. Is that fun? Um, yes.

It is totally different for me. A little magical (just a little) and a little spiritual (but not religious*) and fairly formal. Maybe mystical, at least in its first draft. Not funny. Not sarcastic. I wonder, a little, if I can pull it off. But it's also only beginning. I think the draft has 8K words. So there is room to change. And it will, because that's what drafts do. At least they do when I pull them up and read them and write in them.

So tomorrow, when life changes once again, and I have a schedule, I'll pull it out again. I'll write a scene or two or whatever it takes to reach a thousand words. Then in a week or so, it will be twice as long as it is now, and we'll take another look. And then in a month, or two, or three, it will be a messy, dirty, finished first draft. And then it starts all over again.

*Not that there is anything wrong with religious. I am a believer. It's just not what I write.

I Am At War

The war cannot go unfought. I must eradicate the enemy, as it lurks, smooth and heavy, waving, taunting. I must destroy. This is war.

That may be a little strong. But this is going to be a fight. I am in a battle, anyway.

The enemy? Arm flab.

Eww. It causes my cool-mama casual waves to turn into overeager jiggle-fests. It makes clothes that fit nicely everywhere else look strained and unattractive. Even my healthy tan can't hide the fact of soggy triceps. So, to battle.

The battle plan: at least fifteen minutes of "weight lifting" every morning. I know (because I read, not because I have ever entered a gym) that serious weight lifters need a day off between workouts. I have no intention of being a serious weight lifter. I am indeed not serious about much of anything. But I do own a pair of medium-small hand weights, one of those stretchy plastic band thingies, and a mostly-inflated yoga ball. So I put on the morning news, count repeatedly to sixteen, and lift-curl-push-press my way to tone arms.

Until yesterday. When the free television stations caused me to want to lift the weight of my dinosaur TV and throw it out the window. I almost opted for public television en espanol. Because apparently there was no news in the ENTIRE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA other than that Mr. Ted Kennedy had passed away overnight.

Mr. Senator Kennedy. Bless his heart*. I admit, I didn't try too hard, but I just could never make myself like that guy. In fact, I'm leaning toward the attitude that includes the words "world" and "better place" and "now that he's gone".

Call me calloused. Call me a freakish right-winger. Call me a mean, cold-hearted wench who would speak ill of the dead. But for heaven's sake, something else must have happened somewhere in the states, or even the world, that could have distracted my brain for fifteen minutes of yesterday morning.

Instead, I counted to sixteen over and over and over and over and over as I watched a bearded guy plane a board**. In real time.

I know, I know. If I had any character at all, I would have turned off the noise and enjoyed the moment. I would have listened to the thoughts in my head. I would have meditated. I would have become one with the pink weights in my hands.

Surprise! No character here. But another day done with a few minutes spent on the battlefield. When success comes, I'll let you know. I'll be the one waving casually, with only my hand.

*This is NiceLady code for "I have no kind words" - it fits nicely in any sentence where your mother's voice chants in your head "If you can't say anything nice, say nothing at all."

**As opposed to board a plane. Which might have been more interesting.